^.l<"i    , 

ailors 


W,  W.JACOBS 


LIBRARY 

Miry  of  C»K 
IRVWE 


9 


SAILORS'   KNOTS 


»  „ 


BOOKS  BY  W.  W.   JACOBS 

ILLUSTKATKll    BY   WILL  OWKN 

PUBLISHED    BY    CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


SAILORS'  KNOTS $1-50 

SALTHAVEN $1-50 

SHORT  CRUISES $1.50 

CAPTAINS  ALL $1-5° 

DIALSTONE  LANE $1-50 

ODD  CRAFT $1.50 

AT  SUNWICH  PORT $1-50 


SAILORS'  KNOTS 


BY 

W.  W.  JACOBS 

ILLUSTRATED     BY     WILL     OWEN 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  ::::::::::::::::::::::::  1909 


pff 


S3 


ConriiCHT.  1908,  IOOQ.  BY 
W.  W.  JACOBS 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


A  1  rights  rtstntd 


Published  November,  1909 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DESERTED i 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 25 

SELF-HELP 51 

SENTENCE  DEFERRED     73 

"MATRIMONIAL  OPENINGS" 97 

ODD  MAN  OUT 121 

"THE  TOLL-HOUSE" 145 

PETER'S  PENCE 167 

THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FAMILY 191 

PRIZE  MONEY 217 

DOUBLE  DEALING 241 

KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES 263 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM  DRAWINGS  BY  WILL  OWEN 

PAGE 

He  glanced  fiercely  at  the  retreating  figure  of  the  lighterman   .  2 

He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  Rupert  from  the  fust    ....  5 

An  elderly  old  party  wot  would  keep  jabbing  'im  in  the  ribs  with 

her  umbrella n 

"Back!"  ses  Rupert  in  a  whisper,  pointing 19 

She  stood  blocking  up  the  doorway  with  her  'ands  on  her  'ips  22 

Taking  one  of  the  vases  from  the  mantelpiece,  he  dashed  it  to 

pieces  on  the  fender 26 

"I  called  about  the  bill  in  the  window" 36 

"I — I  thought  I  smelled  something  cooking,"  he  said      ...  41 

"K-K-K-Kch!     K-Kch!"  he  said,  explosively 49 

"'E  comes  along  and  hits  you  over  your  tenderest  corn  with  a 

oar" -52 

Mr.  Cubbins  winked  at  'im  and  tapped  'is  nose 59 

Let  drive  with  all  his  might  in  'is  face 67 

"Wot  on  earth's  the  matter,  Ginger?" 71 

An  elderly  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  who  joined  the  indignant 

officer  in  the  pursuit 74 


Illustrations 

PAGE 

He  was  administering  first  aid  to  a  right  leg 85 

She  took  up  a  handful  of  coal-dust  and  shampooed  him  with 
hearty  good-will 90 

"  Give  this  to  the  skipper,  will  you,  my  lad  ?  "  said  the  sergeant  .    95 
Miss  Dowson,  subsiding  in  her  chair,  went  on  with  her  book  .    98 

"I  just  came  in  to  tell  you  a  joke" 103 

He  edged  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  Flora 105 

Mr.  Foss  bade  them  good-night  suddenly 107 

She  muttered  some  strange  words  and  bent  her  head  lower  over 
the  girl's  hand 109 

Friendship,  he  said,  decidedly,  is  a  deloosion  and  a  snare    .    .122 

When  they  turned  up  they  found  Emma  and  'er  friend  waiting 
for  them 129 

He  put  his  arm  round  Mrs.  Jennings's  waist  and  made  'er  dance 
to  a  piano-organ 136 

He  was  running  down  the  road  without  'is  hat  as  hard  as  he 
could  run 143 

"I'm  a  poor  man,  but  I  wouldn't  spend  the  night  in  that  house 
for  a  hundred  pounds" 146 

They  saw  the  gates  of  the  house  before  them 151 

Barnes  stood  peering  at  the  sleepers  in  silence  and  dropping  tal- 
low over  the  floor 159 

Into  a  vast  bare  kitchen  with  damp  walls  and  a  broken  floor  .  163 
All  three  stood  gazing  at  the  dead  man  below 165 


Illustrations 

PAGE 

Put  a  bishop  in  my  clothes,  and  you'd  ask  'im  to  'ave  a  'arf-pint 
as  soon  as  you  would  me 168 

Mr.  Goodman  came  in  a  four-wheel  cab  with  a  big  bag  and  a  fat 
umbrella 172 

"It  ain't  so  'orrid  as  I  'ad  fancied,"  ses  Sam 181 

He  reached  acrost  the  table  and  shook  'ands  with  Peter      .     .  189 

After  some  years  spent  in  long  voyages 192 

Then  and  there  Mr.  Letts's  mind  was  made  up 198 

A  disagreeable-looking  man  was  eying  them  in  some  astonish- 
ment from  the  doorway 201 

"What's  mine  is  mother's,"  he  concluded 214 

The  sign  of  the  Cauliflower  was  stiff  with  snow 218 

"He's  won  it!  "he  ses,  in  a  choky  voice.  "It's  Number  i"  .  .  225 
The  door  opened  and  Henery  Walker  came  staggering  in  .  .  233 
"Where's  Henery  Walker?"  he  ses,  in  a  loud  voice  ....  236 

Stood  on  the  spacious  common,  inhaling  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea 

below 242 

An  elderly  boatman,  after  looking  at  him  hard,  took  his  pipe  from 

his  mouth  and  bade  him  "Good-evening" 246 

She  piled  Mr.  Carter's  plate  up  so  generously  that  her  father  and 
brother  had  ample  time  to  watch  him  eat 254 

A  gentleman  of  middle  age  was  peeping  round  the  door  .  .  258 
Superstitiousness  is  right  and  proper,  to  a  certain  extent  .  .  264 
Silas  was  very  perlite  at  fust 269 


Illustrations 


r\.  i 


She  saw  Silas  Winch  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  .     .     .     .272 

With  tears  in  his  eyes  'e  emptied  a  little  barrel  o'  beer  down  the 
sink 279 

Other  wimmen  'as  to  be  satisfied  looking  at  new  hats  .    .    .  282 


DESERTED 


He  glanced  fiercely  at  the  retreating  figure  of  the  lighterman. 


Deserted 

AILORMEN  ain't  wot  you  might  call  dandy- 
fied  as  a  rule,"  said  the  night-watchman, 
who  had  just  had  a  passage  of  arms  with  a 
lighterman  and  been  advised  to  let  somebody  else 
wash  him  and  make  a  good  job  of  it;  "they've  got 
too  much  sense.  They  leave  dressing  up  and  making 
eyesores  of  theirselves  to  men  wot  'ave  never  smelt 
salt  water;  men  wot  drift  up  and  down  the  river  in 
lighters  and  get  in  everybody's  way." 

He  glanced  fiercely  at  the  retreating  figure  of  the 
lighterman,  and,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  a  request  for 
a  lock  of  his  hair  to  patch  a  favorite  doormat  with, 
resumed  with  much  vigor  his  task  of  sweeping  up  the 
litter. 

The  most  dressy  sailorman  I  ever  knew,  he  con- 
tinued, as  he  stood  the  broom  up  in  a  corner  and 
seated  himself  on  a  keg,  was  a  young  feller  named 
Rupert  Brown.  His  mother  gave  'im  the  name  of 
Rupert  while  his  father  was  away  at  sea,  and  when 
he  came  'ome  it  was  too  late  to  alter  it.  All  that  a 
man  could  do  he  did  do,  and  Mrs.  Brown  'ad  a  black 
eye  till  'e  went  to  sea  agin.  She  was  a  very  obstinate 

3 


Deserted 

woman,  though — like  most  of  'em — and  a  little  over 
a  year  afterwards  got  pore  old  Brown  three  months' 
hard  by  naming  'er  next  boy  Roderick  Alfonso. 

Young  Rupert  was  on  a  barge  when  I  knew  'im 
fust,  but  he  got  tired  of  always  'aving  dirty  hands 
arter  a  time,  and  went  and  enlisted  as  a  soldier.  I 
lost  sight  of  'im  for  a  while,  and  then  one  evening  he 
turned  up  on  furlough  and  come  to  see  me. 

O*  course,  by  this  time  'e  was  tired  of  soldiering, 
but  wot  upset  'im  more  than  anything  was  always 
'aving  to  be  dressed  the  same  and  not  being  able  to 
wear  a  collar  and  neck-tie.  He  said  that  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  sake  of  good  old  England,  and  the  chance  o' 
getting  six  months,  he'd  desert.  I  tried  to  give  'im 
good  advice,  and,  if  I'd  only  known  'ow  I  was  to  be 
dragged  into  it,  I'd  ha*  given  'im  a  lot  more. 

As  it  'appened  he  deserted  the  very  next  arternoon. 
He  was  in  the  Three  Widders  at  Aldgate,  in  the 
saloon  bar — which  is  a  place  where  you  get  a  pen- 
n'orth of  ale  in  a  glass  and  pay  twopence  for  it — and, 
arter  being  told  by  the  barmaid  that  she  had  got  one 
monkey  at  'ome,  he  got  into  conversation  with  an- 
other man  wot  was  in  there. 

He  was  a  big  man  with  a  black  moustache  and  a 
red  face,  and  'is  fingers  all  smothered  in  di'mond 
rings.  He  'ad  got  on  a  gold  watch-chain  as  thick 
as  a  rope,  and  a  scarf-pin  the  size  of  a  large  walnut, 

4 


He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  Rupert  from  the  fust. 


Deserted 

and  he  had  'ad  a  few  words  with  the  barmaid  on  'is 
own  account.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  Rupert 
from  the  fust,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  'ad  given  'im 
a  big  cigar  out  of  a  sealskin  case  and  ordered  'im 
a  glass  of  sherry  wine. 

"Have  you  ever  thought  o'  going  on  the  stage?" 
he  ses,  arter  Rupert  'ad  told  'im  of  his  dislike  for  the 
Army. 

"No,"  ses  Rupert,  staring. 

"You  s'prise  me,"  ses  the  big  man;  "you're  wast- 
ing of  your  life  by  not  doing  so." 

"  But  I  can't  act,"  ses  Rupert. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  ses  the  big  man.  "Don't 
tell  me.  You've  got  an  actor's  face.  I'm  a  manager 
myself,  and  I  know.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
refused  twenty-three  men  and  forty-eight  ladies  only 
yesterday." 

"I  wonder  you  don't  drop  down  dead,"  ses  the 
barmaid,  lifting  up  'is  glass  to  wipe  down  the  counter. 

The  manager  looked  at  her,  and,  arter  she  'ad 
gone  to  talk  to  a  gentleman  in  the  next  bar  wot  was 
knocking  double  knocks  on  the  counter  with  a  pint 
pot,  he  whispered  to  Rupert  that  she  'ad  been  one 
of  them. 

"She  can't  act  a  bit,"  he  ses.  "Now,  look  'ere; 
I'm  a  business  man  and  my  time  is  valuable.  I  don't 
know  nothing,  and  I  don't  want  to  know  nothing; 

6 


Deserted 

but,  if  a  nice  young  feller,  like  yourself,  for  example, 
was  tired  of  the  Army  and  wanted  to  escape,  I've 
got  one  part  left  in  my  company  that  'ud  suit  'im 
down  to  the  ground." 

"Wot  about  being  reckernized  ?"  ses  Rupert. 

The  manager  winked  at  'im.  "It's  the  part  of  a 
Zulu  chief,"  he  ses,  in  a  whisper. 

Rupert  started.  "But  I  should  'ave  to  black  my 
face,"  he  ses. 

"A  little,"  ses  the  manager;  "but  you'd  soon  get 
on  to  better  parts — and  see  wot  a  fine  disguise  it  is." 

He  stood  'im  two  more  glasses  o'  sherry  wine,  and, 
arter  he'  ad  drunk  'em,  Rupert  gave  way.  The 
manager  patted  'im  on  the  back,  and  said  that  if  he 
wasn't  earning  fifty  pounds  a  week  in  a  year's  time 
he'd  eat  his  'ead;  and  the  barmaid,  wot  'ad  come 
back  agin,  said  it  was  the  best  thing  he  could  do  with 
it,  and  she  wondered  he  'adn't  thought  of  it  afore. 

They  went  out  separate,  as  the  manager  said  it 
would  be  better  for  them  not  to  be  seen  together,  and 
Rupert,  keeping  about  a  dozen  yards  behind,  follered 
'im  down  the  Mile  End  Road.  By  and  by  the  man- 
ager stopped  outside  a  shop-window  wot  'ad  been 
boarded  up  and  stuck  all  over  with  savages  dancing 
and  killing  white  people  and  hunting  elephants,  and, 
arter  turning  round  and  giving  Rupert  a  nod,  opened 
the  door  with  a  key  and  went  inside. 

7 


Deserted 

"That's  all  right,"  he  ses,  as  Rupert  follered  'im 
in.  "This  is  my  wife,  Mrs.  Alfredi,"  he  ses,  intro- 
ducing 'im  to  a  fat,  red-'aired  lady  wot  was  sitting 
inside  sewing.  "She  has  performed  before  all  the 
crowned  'eads  of  Europe.  That  di'mond  brooch 
she's  wearing  was  a  present  from  the  Emperor  of 
Germany,  but,  being  a  married  man,  he  asked  'er 
to  keep  it  quiet." 

Rupert  shook  'ands  with  Mrs.  Alfredi,  and  then 
her  'usband  led  'im  to  a  room  at  the  back,  where  a 
little  lame  man  was  cleaning  up  things,  and  told  'im 
to  take  his  clothes  off. 

"If  they  was  mine,"  he  ses,  squinting  at  the  fire- 
place, "I  should  know  wot  to  do  with  'em." 

Rupert  laughed  and  slapped  'im  on  the  back,  and, 
arter  cutting  his  uniform  into  pieces,  stuffed  it  into 
the  fireplace  and  pulled  the  dampers  out.  He  burnt 
up  'is  boots  and  socks  and  everything  else,  and  they 
all  three  laughed  as  though  it  was  the  best  joke  in 
the  world.  Then  Mr.  Alfredi  took  his  coat  off  and, 
dipping  a  piece  of  rag  into  a  basin  of  stuff  wot 
George  'ad  fetched,  did  Rupert  a  lovely  brown  all 
over. 

"That's  the  fust  coat,"  he  ses.  "Now  take  a 
stool  in  front  of  the  fire  and  let  it  soak  in." 

He  gave  'im  another  coat  arf  an  hour  arterwards, 
while  George  curled  his  'air,  and  when  'e  was  dressed 

8 


Deserted 

m  bracelets  round  'is  ankles  and  wrists,  and  a  leopard- 
skin  over  his  shoulder,  he  was  as  fine  a  Zulu  as  you 
could  wish  for  to  see.  His  lips  was  naturally  thick 
and  his  nose  flat,  and  even  his  eyes  'appened  to  be 
about  the  right  color. 

"He's  a  fair  perfect  treat,"  ses  Mr.  Alfredi. 
"Fetch  Kumbo  in,  George." 

The  little  man  went  out,  and  came  back  agin 
shoving  in  a  fat,  stumpy  Zulu  woman  wot  began  to 
grin  and  chatter  like  a  poll-parrot  the  moment  she 
saw  Rupert. 

"It's  all  right,"  ses  Mr.  Alfredi;  "she's  took  a 
fancy  to  you." 

"Is — is  she  an  actress  ?"  ses  Rupert. 

"One  o'  the  best,"  ses  the  manager.  "She'll 
teach  you  to  dance  and  shy  assegais.  Pore  thing! 
she  buried  her  'usband  the  day  afore  we  come  here, 
but  you'll  be  surprised  to  see  'ow  skittish  she  can  be 
when  she  has  got  over  it  a  bit." 

They  sat  there  while  Rupert  practised — till  he 
started  shying  the  assegais,  that  is — and  then  they 
went  out  and  left  'im  with  Kumbo.  Considering 
that  she  'ad  only  just  buried  her  'usband,  Rupert 
found  her  quite  skittish  enough,  and  he  couldn't 
'elp  wondering  wot  she'd  be  like  when  she'd  got  over 
her  grief  a  bit  more. 

The  manager  and  George  said  he  'ad  got  on  won- 

9 


Deserted 

derfully,  and  arter  talking  it  over  with  Mrs.  Alfredi 
they  decided  to  open  that  evening,  and  pore  Rupert 
found  out  that  the  shop  was  the  theatre,  and  all  the 
acting  he'd  got  to  do  was  to  dance  war-dances  and 
sing  in  Zulu  to  people  wot  had  paid  a  penny  a  'ead. 
He  was  a  bit  nervous  at  fust,  for  fear  anybody  should 
find  out  that  'e  wasn't  a  real  Zulu,  because  the 
manager  said  they'd  tear  'im  to  pieces  if  they  did, 
and  eat  'im  arterwards,  but  arter  a  time  'is  nervous- 
ness wore  off  and  he  jumped  about  like  a  monkey. 

They  gave  performances  every  arf  hour  from 
ha'-past  six  to  ten,  and  Rupert  felt  ready  to  drop. 
His  feet  was  sore  with  dancing  and  his  throat  ached 
with  singing  Zulu,  but  wot  upset  'im  more  than  any- 
thing was  an  elderly  old  party  wot  would  keep 
jabbing  'im  in  the  ribs  with  her  umbrella  to  see 
whether  he  could  laugh. 

They  'ad  supper  arter  they  'ad  closed,  and  then 
Mr.  Alfredi  and  'is  wife  went  off,  and  Rupert  and 
George  made  up  beds  for  themselves  in  the  shop, 
while  Kumbo  'ad  a  little  place  to  herself  at  the  back. 

He  did  better  than  ever  next  night,  and  they  all 
said  he  was  improving  fast;  and  Mr.  Alfredi  told  'im 
in  a  whisper  that  he  thought  he  was  better  at  it  than 
Kumbo.  "Not  that  I  should  mind  'er  knowing 
much,"  he  ses,  "seeing  that  she's  took  such  a  fancy 
to  you." 

10 


An  elderly  old  party  wot  would  keep  jabbing  'im  in  the  ribs  with  her  umbrella. 


ii 


Deserted 

"  Ah,  I  was  going  to  speak  to  you  about  that,"  ses 
Rupert.  "Forwardness  is  no  name  for  it;  if  she 
don't  keep  'erself  to  'erself,  I  shall  chuck  the  whole 
thing  up." 

The  manager  coughed  behind  his  'and.  "And 
go  back  to  the  Army?"  he  ses.  "Well,  I  should  be 
sorry  to  lose  you,  but  I  won't  stand  in  your  way." 

Mrs.  Alfredi,  wot  was  standing  by,  stuffed  her 
pocket-'ankercher  in  'er  mouth,  and  Rupert  began 
to  feel  a  bit  uneasy  in  his  mind. 

"If  I  did,"  he  ses,  "you'd  get  into  trouble  for 
'elping  me  to  desert." 

"Desert!"  ses  Mr.  Alfredi.  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  your  deserting." 

"  Ho ! "  ses  Rupert.  "  And  wot  about  my  uniform  ? " 

"Uniform?"  ses  Mr.  Alfredi.  "Wot  uniform?  I 
ain't  seen  no  uniform.  Where  is  it  ?" 

Rupert  didn't  answer  'im,  but  arter  they  'ad  gone 
'ome  he  told  George  that  he  'ad  'ad  enough  of  acting 
and  he  should  go. 

"Where  to?"  ses  George. 

"I'll  find  somewhere,"  ses  Rupert.  "I  sha'n't 
starve." 

"You  might  ketch  your  death  o*  cold,  though," 
ses  George. 

Rupert  said  he  didn't  mind,  and  then  he  shut  'is 
eyes  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  His  idea  was  to 

12 


Deserted 

wait  till  George  was  asleep  and  then  pinch  'is  clothes; 
consequently  'is  feelings  when  'e  opened  one  eye  and 
saw  George  getting  into  bed  with  'is  clothes  on  won't 
bear  thinking  about.  He  laid  awake  for  hours,  and 
three  times  that  night  George,  who  was  a  very  heavy 
sleeper,  woke  up  and  found  Rupert  busy  tucking 
him  in. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Rupert  was  getting  desper- 
ate. He  hated  being  black  for  one  thing,  and  the 
more  he  washed  the  better  color  he  looked.  He 
didn't  mind  the  black  for  out  o'  doors,  in  case  the 
Army  was  looking  for  'im,  but  'aving  no  clothes  he 
couldn't  get  out  o'  doors;  and  when  he  said  he 
wouldn't  perform  unless  he  got  some,  Mr.  Alfredi 
dropped  'ints  about  having  'im  took  up  for  a  de- 
serter. 

"I've  'ad  my  suspicions  of  it  for  some  days,"  he 
ses,  with  a  wink,  "though  you  did  come  to  me  in  a 
nice  serge  suit  and  tell  me  you  was  an  actor.  Now, 
you  be  a  good  boy  for  another  week  and  I'll  ad- 
vance you  a  couple  o'  pounds  to  get  some  clothes 
with." 

Rupert  asked  him  to  let  'im  have  it  then,  but  'e 
wouldn't,  and  for  another  week  he  'ad  to  pretend 
'e  was  a  Zulu  of  an  evening,  and  try  and  persuade 
Kumbo  that  he  was  an  English  gentleman  of  a 
daytime. 


Deserted 

He  got  the  money  at  the  end  of  the  week  and  'ad 
to  sign  a  paper  to  give  a  month's  notice  any  time  he 
wanted  to  leave,  but  he  didn't  mind  that  at  all, 
being  determined  the  fust  time  he  got  outside  the 
place  to  run  away  and  ship  as  a  nigger  cook  if  'e 
couldn't  get  the  black  off. 

He  made  a  list  o'  things  out  for  George  to  get  for 
'im,  but  there  seemed  to  be  such  a  lot  for  two  pounds 
that  Mr.  Alfredi  shook  his  'ead  over  it;  and  arter 
calling  'imself  a  soft-'arted  fool,  and  saying  he'd 
finish  up  in  the  workhouse,  he  made  it  three  pounds 
and  told  George  to  look  sharp. 

"He's  a  very  good  marketer,"  he  ses,  arter  George 
'ad  gone;  "he  don't  mind  wot  trouble  he  takes. 
He'll  very  likely  haggle  for  hours  to  get  sixpence 
knocked  off  the  trousers  or  twopence  off  the 
shirt." 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  George 
went,  and  at  ha'-past  four  Rupert  turned  nasty,  and 
said  'e  was  afraid  he  was  trying  to  get  them  for 
nothing.  At  five  o'clock  he  said  George  was  a  fool, 
and  at  ha'-past  he  said  'e  was  something  I  won't 
repeat. 

It  was  just  eleven  o'clock,  and  they  'ad  shut  up 
for  the  night,  when  the  front  door  opened,  and 
George  stood  there  smiling  at  'em  and  shaking  his 
'ead. 

14 


Deserted 

"Sush  a  lark,"  he  ses,  catching  'old  of  Mr.  Al- 
fredi's  arm  to  steady  'imself.  "I  gave  'im  shlip." 

"Wot  d'ye  mean  ?"  ses  the  manager,  shaking  him 
off.  "Gave  who  the  slip  ?  Where's  them  clothes  ?" 

"Boy's  got  'em,"  ses  George,  smiling  agin  and 
catching  hold  of  Kumbo's  arm.  "Sush  a  lark;  he's 
been  car-carrying  'em  all  day — all  day.  Now  I've 
given  'im  the — the  shlip,  'stead  o' — 'stead  o'  giving  'im 
fourpence.  Take  care  o'  the  pensh,  an'  pouns " 

He  let  go  o'  Kumbo's  arm,  turned  round  twice,  and 
then  sat  down  'eavy  and  fell  fast  asleep.  The  manager 
rushed  to  the  door  and  looked  out,  but  there  was  no 
signs  of  the  boy,  and  he  came  back  shaking  his 
'ead,  and  said  that  George  'ad  been  drinking  agin. 

"Well,  wot  about  my  clothes  ?"  ses  Rupert,  hardly 
able  to  speak. 

"P'r'aps  he  didn't  buy  'em  arter  all,"  ses  the 
manager.  "Let's  try  'is  pockets." 

He  tried  fust,  and  found  some  strawberries  that 
George  'ad  spoilt  by  sitting  on.  Then  he  told  Rupert 
to  have  a  try,  and  Rupert  found  some  bits  of  string, 
a  few  buttons,  two  penny  stamps,  and  twopence 
ha'penny  in  coppers. 

"Never  mind,"  ses  Mr.  Alfredi;  "I'll  go  round  to 
the  police-station  in  the  morning;  p'r'aps  the  boy 
'as  taken  them  there.  I'm  disapp'inted  in  George. 
I  shall  tell  'im  so,  too." 

15 


Deserted 

He  bid  Rupert  good-night  and  went  off  with  Mrs. 
Alfredi;  and  Rupert,  wishful  to  make  the  best  o' 
things,  decided  that  he  would  undress  George  and 
go  off  in  'is  clothes.  He  waited  till  Kumbo  'ad  gone 
off  to  bed,  and  then  he  started  to  take  George's  coat 
off.  He  got  the  two  top  buttons  undone  all  right, 
and  then  George  turned  over  in  'is  sleep.  It  sur- 
prised Rupert,  but  wot  surprised  'im  more  when  he 
rolled  George  over  was  to  find  them  two  buttons 
done  up  agin.  Arter  it  had  'appened  three  times 
he  see  'ow  it  was,  and  he  come  to  the  belief  that 
George  was  no  more  drunk  than  wot  he  was,  and 
that  it  was  all  a  put-up  thing  between  'im  and  Mr. 
Alfredi. 

He  went  to  bed  then  to  think  it  over,  and  by  the 
morning  he  'ad  made  up  his  mind  to  keep  quiet  and 
bide  his  time,  as  the  saying  is.  He  spoke  quite 
cheerful  to  Mr.  Alfredi,  and  pretended  to  believe  'im 
when  he  said  that  he  'ad  been  to  the  police-station 
about  the  clothes. 

Two  days  arterwards  he  thought  of  something; 
he  remembered  me.  He  'ad  found  a  dirty  old  en- 
velope on  the  floor,  and  with  a  bit  o*  lead  pencil  he 
wrote  me  a  letter  on  the  back  of  one  o'  the  bills, 
telling  me  all  his  troubles,  and  asking  me  to  bring 
some  clothes  and  rescue  'im.  He  stuck  on  one  of  the 
stamps  he  'ad  found  in  George's  pocket,  and  open- 

16 


Deserted 

ing  the  door  just  afore  going  to  bed  threw  it  out  on 
the  pavement. 

The  world  is  full  of  officious,  interfering  busy- 
bodies.  I  should  no  more  think  of  posting  a  letter 
that  didn't  belong  to  me,  with  an  unused  stamp  on 
it,  than  I  should  think  o'  flying;  but  some  meddle- 
some son  of  a — a  gun  posted  that  letter  and  I  got  it. 

I  was  never  more  surprised  in  my  life.  He  asked 
me  to  be  outside  the  shop  next  night  at  ha'-past 
eleven  with  any  old  clothes  I  could  pick  up.  If  I 
didn't,  he  said  he  should  'ang  'imself  as  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  that  his  ghost  would  sit  on  the 
wharf  and  keep  watch  with  me  every  night  for  the 
rest  o'  my  life.  He  said  he  expected  it  'ud  have  a 
black  face,  same  as  in  life. 

A  wharf  is  a  lonely  place  of  a  night;  especially 
our  wharf,  which  is  full  of  dark  corners,  and,  being 
a  silly,  good-natured  fool,  I  went.  I  got  a  pal  ofF  of 
one  of  the  boats  to  keep  watch  for  me,  and,  arter 
getting  some  old  rags  off  of  another  sailorman  as 
owed  me  arf  a  dollar,  I  'ad  a  drink  and  started  off 
for  the  Mile  End  Road. 

I  found  the  place  easy  enough.  The  door  was 
just  on  the  jar,  and  as  I  tapped  on  it  with  my  finger- 
nails a  wild-looking  black  man,  arf  naked,  opened  it 
and  said  "H'sh!"  and  pulled  me  inside.  There  was 
a  bit  o'  candle  on  the  floor,  shaded  by  a  box,  and  a 


Deserted 

man  fast  asleep  and  snoring  up  in  one  corner.  Rupert 
dressed  like  lightning,  and  he  'ad  just  put  on  'is  cap 
when  the  door  at  the  back  opened  and  a  'orrid  fat 
black  woman  came  out  and  began  to  chatter. 

Rupert  told  her  to  hush,  and  she  'ushed,  and  then 
he  waved  'is  hand  to  'er  to  say  "good-bye,"  and  afore 
you  could  say  Jack  Robinson  she  'ad  grabbed  up  a 
bit  o'  dirty  blanket,  a  bundle  of  assegais,  and  a  spear, 
and  come  out  arter  us. 

"Back!"  ses  Rupert  in  a  whisper,  pointing. 

Kumbo  shook  her  'ead,  and  then  he  took  hold  of 
'er  and  tried  to  shove  'er  back,  but  she  wouldn't 
go.  I  lent  him  a  'and,  but  all  wimmen  are  the  same, 
black  or  white,  and  afore  I  knew  where  I  was  she  'ad 
clawed  my  cap  off  and  scratched  me  all  down  one 
side  of  the  face. 

"Walk  fast,"  ses  Rupert. 

I  started  to  run,  but  it  was  all  no  good;  Kumbo 
kept  up  with  us  easy,  and  she  was  so  pleased  at  being 
out  in  the  open  air  that  she  began  to  dance  and  play 
about  like  a  kitten.  Instead  o'  minding  their  own 
business  people  turned  and  follered  us,  and  quite  a 
crowd  collected. 

"We  shall  'ave  the  police  in  a  minute,"  ses  Rupert. 
"Come  in  'ere — quick." 

He  pointed  to  a  pub  up  a  side  street,  and  went  in 
with  Kumbo  holding  on  to  his  arm.  The  barman 

18 


Deserted 

was  for  sending  us  out  at  fust,  but  such  a  crowd  fol- 
lered  us  in  that  he  altered  'is  mind.     I  ordered  three 


"Back!"  ses  Rupert  in  a  whisper,  pointing. 

pints,  and,  while  I  was  'anding  Rupert  his,  Kumbo 
finished  'ers  and  began  on  mine.     I  tried  to  explain, 

'9 


Deserted 

but  she  held  on  to  it  like  grim  death,  and  in  the  con- 
fusion Rupert  slipped  out. 

He  'adn't  been  gone  five  seconds  afore  she  missed 
'im,  and  I  never  see  anybody  so  upset  in  all  my  life. 
She  spilt  the  beer  all  down  the  place  where  'er  bodice 
ought  to  ha'  been,  and  then  she  dropped  the  pot  and 
went  arter  'im  like  a  hare.  I  follered  in  a  different 
way,  and  when  I  got  round  the  corner  I  found  she 
'ad  caught  'im  and  was  holding  'im  by  the  arm. 

O'  course,  the  crowd  was  round  us  agin,  and  to 
get  rid  of  'em  I  did  a  thing  I'd  seldom  done  afore — 
I  called  a  cab,  and  we  all  bundled  in  and  drove  off 
to  the  wharf,  with  the  spear  sticking  out  o'  the  win- 
dow, and  most  of  the  assegais  sticking  into  me. 

"This  is  getting  serious,"  ses  Rupert. 

"Yes,"  I  ses;  "and  wot  'ave  I  done  to  be  dragged 
into  it  ?  You  must  ha'  been  paying  'er  some  atten- 
tion to  make  'er  carry  on  like  this." 

I  thought  Rupert  would  ha'  bust,  and  the  things 
he  said  to  the  man  wot  was  spending  money  like  water 
to  rescue  'im  was  disgraceful. 

We  got  to  the  wharf  at  last,  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
that  my  pal  'ad  got  tired  of  nightwatchingand  'ad  gone 
off,  leaving  the  gate  open.  Kumbo  went  in  'anging 
on  to  Rupert's  arm,  and  I  follered  with  the  spear, 
which  I  'ad  held  in  my  'and  while  I  paid  the  cabman. 

They  went  into  the  office,  and  Rupert  and  me 

20 


Deserted 

talked  it  over  while  Kumbo  kept  patting  'is  cheek. 
He  was  afraid  that  the  manager  would  track  'im 
to  the  wharf,  and  I  was  afraid  that  the  guv'nor  would 
find  out  that  I  'ad  been  neglecting  my  dooty,  for  the 
fust  time  in  my  life. 

We  talked  all  night  pretty  near,  and  then,  at  ha'- 
past  five,  arf  an  hour  afore  the  'ands  came  on,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  fetch  a  cab  and  drive  'em  to  my 
'ouse.  I  wanted  Rupert  to  go  somewhere  else,  but 
'e  said  he  'ad  got  nowhere  else  to  go,  and  it  was  the 
only  thing  to  get  'em  off  the  wharf.  I  opened  the 
gates  at  ten  minutes  to  six,  and  just  as  the  fust  man 
come  on  and  walked  down  the  wharf  we  slipped  in 
and  drove  away. 

We  was  all  tired  and  yawning.  There's  something 
about  the  motion  of  a  cab  or  an  omnibus  that  always 
makes  me  feel  sleepy,  and  arter  a  time  I  closed  my 
eyes  and  went  off  sound.  I  remember  I  was  dream- 
ing that  I  'ad  found  a  bag  o'  money,  when  the  cab 
pulled  up  with  a  jerk  in  front  of  my  'ouse  and  woke 
me  up.  Opposite  me  sat  Kumbo  fast  asleep,  and 
Rupert  'ad  disappeared! 

I  was  dazed  for  a  moment,  and  afore  I  could  do 
anything  Kumbo  woke  up  and  missed  Rupert.  Wot 
made  matters  worse  than  anything  was  that  my 
missis  was  kneeling  down  in  the  passage  doing  'er 
door-step,  and  'er  face,  as  I  got  down  out  o'  that  cab 

21 


Deserted 

with  Kumbo  'anging  on  to  my  arm  was  something 
too  awful  for  words.     It  seemed  to  rise  up  slow-like 


She  stood  blocking  up  the  doorway  with  her  'ands  on  her  'ips. 

from  near  the  door-step,  and  to  go  on  rising  till  I 
thought  it  'ud  never  stop.  And  every  inch  it  rose 
it  got  worse  and  worse  to  look  at 

22 


Deserted 

She  stood  blocking  up  the  doorway  with  her  'ands 
on  her  'ips,  while  I  explained,  with  Kumbo  still 
'anging  on  my  arm  and  a  crowd  collecting  behind, 
and  the  more  I  explained,  the  more  I  could  see  she 
didn't  believe  a  word  of  it. 

She  never  'as  believed  it.  I  sent  for  Mr.  Alfredi 
to  come  and  take  Kumbo  away,  and  when  I  spoke  to 
'im  about  Rupert  he  said  I  was  dreaming,  and  asked 
me  whether  I  wasn't  ashamed  o'  myself  for  carrying 
off  a  pore  black  gal  wot  'ad  got  no  father  or  mother 
to  look  arter  her.  He  said  that  afore  my  missis,  and 
my  character  'as  been  under  a  cloud  ever  since,  wait- 
ing for  Rupert  to  turn  up  and  clear  it  away. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


.Taking  one  of  the  vases  from  the  mantelpiece,  he  dashed  it  to  pieces 
on  the  fender. 


Homeward  Bound 

MR.  HATCHARD'S  conversation  for  nearly 
a  week  had  been  confined  to  fault-finding 
and  grunts,  a  system  of  treatment  de- 
signed to  wean  Mrs.  Hatchard  from  her  besetting 
sin  of  extravagance.  On  other  occasions  the  treat- 
ment had,  for  short  periods,  proved  successful,  but 
it  was  quite  evident  that  his  wife's  constitution  was 
becoming  inured  to  this  physic  and  required  a  change 
of  treatment.  The  evidence  stared  at  him  from  the 
mantelpiece  in  the  shape  of  a  pair  of  huge  pink  vases, 
which  had  certainly  not  been  there  when  he  left  in 
the  morning.  He  looked  at  them  and  breathed 
heavily. 

"Pretty,  ain't  they?"  said  his  wife,  nodding  at 
them. 

"Who  gave  'em  to  you  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Hatchard, 
sternly. 

His  wife  shook  her  head.  "You  don't  get  vases 
like  that  given  to  you,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  Leastways, 
I  don't." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  bought  'em  ?"  demanded 
her  husband. 

27 


Homeward   Bound 

Mrs.  Hatchard  nodded. 

"After  all  I  said  to  you  about  wasting  my  money  ?" 
persisted  Mr.  Hatchard,  in  amazed  accents. 

Mrs.  Hatchard  nodded,  more  brightly  than  before. 

"There  has  got  to  be  an  end  to  this!"  said  her 
husband,  desperately.  "I  won't  have  it!  D'ye  hear  ? 
I  won't — have — it!" 

"I  bought  'em  with  my  own  money,"  said  his 
wife,  tossing  her  head. 

"Your  money?"  said  Mr.  Hatchard.  "To  hear 
you  talk  anybody  'ud  think  you'd  got  three  hundred 
a  year,  instead  o'  thirty.  Your  money  ought  to  be 
spent  in  useful  things,  same  as  what  mine  is.  Why 
should  I  spend  my  money  keeping  you,  while  you 
waste  yours  on  pink  vases  and  having  friends  in  to 
tea?" 

Mrs.  Hatchard 's  still  comely  face  took  on  a  deeper 
tinge. 

"  Keeping  me  ?"  she  said,  sharply.  "You'd  better 
stop  before  you  say  anything  you  might  be  sorry  for, 
Alfred." 

"I  should  have  to  talk  a  long  time  before  I  said 
that,"  retorted  the  other. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  his  wife.  "I'm  beginning 
to  be  tired  of  it." 

"I've  reasoned  with  you,"  continued  Mr.  Hatch- 
ard, "I've  argued  with  you,  and  I've  pointed  out 

28 


Homeward  Bound 

the  error   of  your   ways   to   you,   and    it's  all  no 
good." 

"Oh,  be  quiet,  and  don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  his 
wife. 

"Talking,"  continued  Mr.  Hatchard,  "as  I  said 
before,  is  no  good.  Deeds,  not  words,  is  what  is 
wanted." 

He  rose  suddenly  from  his  chair  and,  taking  one 
of  the  vases  from  the  mantelpiece,  dashed  it  to  pieces 
on  the  fender.  Example  is  contagious,  and  two 
seconds  later  he  was  in  his  chair  again,  softly  feeling 
a  rapidly  growing  bump  on  his  head,  and  gazing 
goggle-eyed  at  his  wife. 

"And  I'd  do  it  again,"  said  that  lady,  breathlessly, 
"if  there  was  another  vase." 

Mr.  Hatchard  opened  his  mouth,  but  speech  failed 
him.  He  got  up  and  left  the  room  without  a  word, 
and,  making  his  way  to  the  scullery,  turned  on  the 
tap  and  held  his  head  beneath  it.  A  sharp  intake 
of  the  breath  announced  that  a  tributary  stream  was 
looking  for  the  bump  down  the  neck  of  his  shirt. 

He  was  away  a  long  time — so  long  that  the  half- 
penitent  Mrs.  Hatchard  was  beginning  to  think  of 
giving  first  aid  to  the  wounded.  Then  she  heard 
him  coming  slowly  back  along  the  passage.  He 
entered  the  room,  drying  his  wet  hair  on  a  hand- 
kerchief. 

29 


Homeward   Bound 

"I — I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  you — much?"  said  his 
wife. 

Mr.  Hatchard  drew  himself  up  and  regarded  her 
with  lofty  indignation. 

"You  might  have  killed  me,**  he  said  at  last,  in 
thrilling  tones.  "  Then  what  would  you  have  done  ? " 

"Swept  up  the  pieces,  and  said  you  came  home 
injured  and  died  in  my  arms,'*  said  Mrs.  Hatchard, 
glibly.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  unfeeling,  but  you'd  try 
the  temper  of  a  saint.  I'm  sure  I  wonder  I  haven't 
done  it  before.  Why  I  married  a  stingy  man  I  don't 
know." 

"Why  I  married  at  all  L  don't  know,"  said  her 
husband,  in  a  deep  voice. 

"We  were  both  fools,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  in  a 
resigned  voice;  "that's  what  it  was.  However,  it 
can't  be  helped  now.** 

"Some  men  would  go  and  leave  you,"  said  Mr. 
Hatchard. 

"Well,  go,"  said  his  wife,  bridling.  "I  don't  want 
you." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  the  other. 

"  It  ain't  nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard.  "  If  you 
want  to  go,  go.  I  don't  want  to  keep  you." 

"  I  only  wish  I  could,"  said  her  husband,  wistfully. 

"There's  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  pointing. 
"What's  to  prevent  you  ?" 

3° 


Homeward   Bound 

"And  have  you  going  to  the  magistrate  ?"  observed 
Mr.  Hatchard. 

"Not  me,"  was  the  reply. 

"Or  coming  up,  full  of  complaints,  to  the  ware- 
house?'* 

"Not  me,"  said  his  wife  again. 

"It  makes  my  mouth  water  to  think  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Hatchard.  "  Four  years  ago  I  hadn't  a  care  in 
the  world." 

"Me  neither,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard;  "but  then  I 
never  thought  I  should  marry  you.  I  remember  the 
first  time  I  saw  you  I  had  to  stuff  my  handkerchief 
in  my  mouth." 

"What  for?"  inquired  Mr.  Hatchard. 

"Keep  from  laughing,"  was  the  reply. 

"You  took  care  not  to  let  me  see  you  laugh,"  said 
Mr.  Hatchard,  grimly.  "You  were  polite  enough  in 
them  days.  I  only  wish  I  could  have  my  time  over 
again;  that's  all." 

"You  can  go,  as  I  said  before,"  said  his  wife. 

"I'd  go  this  minute,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  "but  I 
know  what  it  'ud  be:  in  three  or  four  days  you'd 
be  coming  and  begging  me  to  take  you  back  again." 

"You  try  me,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  with  a  hard 
laugh.  "I  can  keep  myself.  You  leave  me  the 
furniture — most  of  it  is  mine — and  I  sha'n't  worry 
you  again." 

31 


Homeward   Bound 

"Mind!"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  raising  his  hand  with 
great  solemnity.  "  If  I  go,  I  never  come  back  again." 

"I'll  take  care  of  that,"  said  his  wife,  equably. 
"You  are  far  more  likely  to  ask  to  come  back  than 
I  am." 

Mr.  Hatchard  stood  for  some  time  in  deep  thought, 
and  then,  spurred  on  by  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh 
from  his  wife,  went  to  the  small  passage  and,  putting 
on  his  overcoat  and  hat,  stood  in  the  parlor  doorway 
regarding  her. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  you  at  your  word,"  he 
said,  at  last. 

"Good-night,"  said  his  wife,  briskly.  "If  you 
send  me  your  address,  I'll  send  your  things  on  to  you. 
There's  no  need  for  you  to  call  about  them." 

Hardly  realizing  the  seriousness  of  the  step,  Mr. 
Hatchard  closed  the  front  door  behind  him  with  a 
bang,  and  then  discovered  that  it  was  raining.  Too 
proud  to  return  for  his  umbrella,  he  turned  up  his 
coat-collar  and,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
walked  slowly  down  the  desolate  little  street.  By 
the  time  he  had  walked  a  dozen  yards  he  began  to 
think  that  he  might  as  well  have  waited  until  the 
morning;  before  he  had  walked  fifty  he  was  certain 
of  it. 

He  passed  the  night  at  a  coffee-house,  and  rose  so 
early  in  the  morning  that  the  proprietor  took  it  as  a 

32 


Homeward   Bound 

personal  affront,  and  advised  him  to  get  his  breakfast 
elsewhere.  It  was  the  longest  day  in  Mr.  Hatch- 
ard's  experience,  and,  securing  modest  lodgings  that 
evening,  he  overslept  himself  and  was  late  at  the 
warehouse  next  morning  for  the  first  time  in  ten 
years. 

His  personal  effects  arrived  next  day,  but  no  letter 
came  from  his  wife,  and  one  which  he  wrote  concern- 
ing a  pair  of  missing  garments  received  no  reply.  He 
wrote  again,  referring  to  them  in  laudatory  terms,  and 
got  a  brief  reply  to  the  effect  that  they  had  been  ex- 
changed in  part  payment  on  a  pair  of  valuable  pink 
vases,  the  pieces  of  which  he  could  have  by  paying 
the  carriage. 

In  six  weeks  Mr.  Hatchard  changed  his  lodgings 
twice.  A  lack  of  those  home  comforts  which  he  had 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course  during  his  married  life 
was  a  source  of  much  tribulation,  and  it  was  clear 
that  his  weekly  bills  were  compiled  by  a  clever 
writer  of  fiction.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  lodg- 
ings, and  the  difficulty  of  saying  unpleasant  things 
to  a  woman  other  than  his  wife  was  not  the  least  of 
his  troubles.  He  changed  his  lodgings  for  a  third 
time,  and,  much  surprised  at  his  wife's  continued 
silence,  sought  out  a  cousin  of  hers  named  Joe  Pett, 
and  poured  his  troubles  into  that  gentleman's  re- 
luctant ear. 

33 


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"If  she  was  to  ask  me  to  take  her  back,"  he  con- 
cluded, "I'm  not  sure,  mind  you,  that  I  wouldn't 
do  so." 

"It  does  you  credit,"  said  Mr.  Pett.  "Well,  ta-ta; 
I  must  be  off." 

"And  I  expect  she'd  be  very  much  obliged  to 
anybody  that  told  her  so,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  clutch- 
ing at  the  other's  sleeve. 

Mr.  Pett,  gazing  into  space,  said  that  he  thought 
it  highly  probable. 

"It  wants  to  be  done  cleverly,  though,"  said  Mr. 
Hatchard,  "  else  she  might  get  the  idea  that  I  wanted 
to  go  back." 

"I  s'pose  you  know  she's  moved  ?"  said  Mr.  Pett, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  anxious  to  change  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Eh?  "said  the  other. 

"Number  thirty-seven,  John  Street,"  said  Mr. 
Pett.  "Told  my  wife  she's  going  to  take  in  lodgers. 
Calling  herself  Mrs.  Harris,  after  her  maiden  name." 

He  went  off  before  Mr.  Hatchard  could  recover, 
and  the  latter  at  once  verified  the  information  in  part 
by  walking  round  to  his  old  house.  Bits  of  straw 
and  paper  littered  the  front  garden,  the  blinds  were 
down,  and  a  bill  was  pasted  on  the  front  parlor  win- 
dow. Aghast  at  such  determination,  he  walked  back 
to  his  lodgings  in  gloomy  thought. 

34 


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On  Saturday  afternoon  he  walked  round  to  John 
Street,  and  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  as  he  passed, 
stole  a  glance  at  No.  37.  He  recognized  the  curtains 
at  once,  and,  seeing  that  there  was  nobody  in  the 
room,  leaned  over  the  palings  and  peered  at  a  card 
that  stood  on  the  window-sash : 

FURNISHED  APARTMENTS 

FOR    SINGLE    YOUNG    MAN 

BOARD  IF  DESIRED. 

He  walked  away  whistling,  and  after  going  a  little 
way  turned  and  passed  it  again.  He  passed  in  all 
four  times,  and  then,  with  an  odd  grin  lurking  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  strode  up  to  the  front  door  and 
knocked  loudly.  He  heard  somebody  moving  about 
inside,  and,  more  with  the  idea  of  keeping  his  cour- 
age up  than  anything  else,  gave  another  heavy  knock 
at  the  door.  It  was  thrown  open  hastily,  and  the 
astonished  face  of  his  wife  appeared  before  him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  inquired,  sharply. 

Mr.  Hatchard  raised  his  hat.  "Good-afternoon, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  politely. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  repeated  his  wife. 

"I  called,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  clearing  his  throat 
— "I  called  about  the  bill  in  the  window." 

Mrs.  Hatchard  clutched  at  the  door-post. 
35 


I  called  about  the  bill  in  the  window." 
36 


Homeward   Bound 

"Well?''  she  gasped. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  rooms,"  said  the  other. 

"  But  you  ain't  a  single  young  man,"  said  his  wife, 
recovering. 

"I'm  as  good  as  single,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard.  "I 
should  say,  better." 

"You  ain't  young,"  objected  Mrs.  Hatchard. 

"I'm  three  years  younger  than  what  you  are," 
said  Mr.  Hatchard,  dispassionately. 

His  wife's  lips  tightened  and  her  hand  closed  on 
the  door;  Mr.  Hatchard  put  his  foot  in. 

"  If  you  don't  want  lodgers,  why  do  you  put  a  bill 
up  ?"  he  inquired. 

"I  don't  take  the  first  that  comes,"  said  his 
wife. 

"I'll  pay  a  week  in  advance,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard, 
putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Of  course,  if  you're 
afraid  of  having  me  here — afraid  o'  giving  way  to 
tenderness,  I  mean " 

"  Afraid  ? "  choked  Mrs.  Hatchard.  "  Tenderness ! 
I— I " 

"Just  a  matter  o'  business,"  continued  her  hus- 
band; "that's  my  way  of  looking  at  it — that's  a 
mans  way.  I  s'pose  women  are  different.  They 
can't " 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  breathing  hard. 

Mr.  Hatchard  obeyed,  and  clapping  a  hand  over 
37 


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his  mouth  ascended  the  stairs  behind  her.  At  the 
top  she  threw  open  the  door  of  a  tiny  bedroom,  and 
stood  aside  for  him  to  enter.  Mr.  Hatchard  sniffed 
critically. 

"Smells  rather  stuffy,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"You  needn't  have  it,"  said  his  wife,  abruptly. 
"There's  plenty  of  other  fish  in  the  sea." 

"Yes;  and  I  expect  they'd  stay  there  if  they  saw 
this  room,"  said  the  other. 

"Don't  think  I  want  you  to  have  it;  because  I 
don't,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  making  a  preliminary 
movement  to  showing  him  downstairs. 

"They  might  suit  me,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  mus- 
ingly, as  he  peeped  in  at  the  sitting-room  door.  "I 
shouldn't  be  at  home  much.  I'm  a  man  that's  fond 
of  spending  his  evenings  out." 

Mrs.  Hatchard,  checking  a  retort,  eyed  him  grimly. 

"I've  seen  worse,"  he  said,  slowly;  "but  then 
I've  seen  a  good  many.  How  much  are  you  ask- 
ing?" 

"Seven  shillings  a  week,"  replied  his  wife.  "With 
breakfast,  tea,  and  supper,  a  pound  a  week." 

Mr.  Hatchard  nearly  whistled,  but  checked  himself 
just  in  time. 

"  I'll  give  it  a  trial,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  unbear- 
able patronage. 

Mrs.  Hatchard  hesitated. 

38 


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"  If  you  come  here,  you  quite  understand  it's  on  a 
business  footing,"  she  said. 

"O'  course,"  said  the  other,  with  affected  surprise. 
"What  do  you  think  I  want  it  on  ?" 

"You  come  here  as  a  stranger,  and  I  look  after 
you  as  a  stranger,"  continued  his  wife. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  other.  "I  shall  be  made 
more  comfortable  that  way,  I'm  sure.  But,  of  course, 
if  you're  afraid,  as  I  said  before,  of  giving  way  to 
tender " 

"Tender  fiddlesticks!"  interrupted  his  wife,  flush- 
ing and  eying  him  angrily. 

"  I'll  come  in  and  bring  my  things  at  nine  o'clock 
to-night,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard.  "I'd  like  the  win- 
dows open  and  the  rooms  aired  a  bit.  And  what 
about  the  sheets?" 

"What  about  them?"  inquired  his  wife. 

"Don't  put  me  in  damp  sheets,  that's  all,"  said 
Mr.  Hatchard.  "One  place  I  was  at " 

He  broke  off  suddenly. 

"Well!"  said  his  wife,  quickly. 

"Was  very  particular  about  them,"  said  Mr. 
Hatchard,  recovering.  "Well,  good-afternoon  to 
you,  ma'am." 

"  I  want  three  weeks  in  advance,"  said  his  wife. 

"Three — "  exclaimed  the  other.     "Three  weeks 

in  advance  ?    Why " 

39 


Homeward   Bound 

"Those  are  my  terms,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard. 
"Take  'em  or  leave  'em.  P'r'aps  it  would  be  better 
if  you  left  'em." 

Mr.  Hatchard  looked  thoughtful,  and  then  with 
obvious  reluctance  took  his  purse  from  one  pocket 
and  some  silver  from  another,  and  made  up  the  re- 
quired sum. 

"And  what  if  I'm  not  comfortable  here?"  he  in- 
quired, as  his  wife  hastily  pocketed  the  money. 

"It'll  be  your  own  fault,"  was  the  reply. 

Mr.  Hatchard  looked  dubious,  and,  in  a  thoughtful 
fashion,  walked  downstairs  and  let  himself  out.  He 
began  to  think  that  the  joke  was  of  a  more  compli- 
cated nature  than  he  had  expected,  and  it  was  not 
without  forebodings  that  he  came  back  at  nine 
o'clock  that  night  accompanied  by  a  boy  with  his 


His  gloom  disappeared  the  moment  the  door 
opened.  The  air  inside  was  warm  and  comfortable, 
and  pervaded  by  an  appetizing  smell  of  cooked  meats. 
Upstairs  a  small  bright  fire  and  a  neatly  laid  supper- 
table  awaited  his  arrival. 

He  sank  into  an  easy-chair  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
Then  his  gaze  fell  on  a  small  bell  on  the  table,  and 
opening  the  door  he  rang  for  supper. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard,  entering  the  room. 

"Supper,  please,"  said  the  new  lodger,  with  dignity. 

40 


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Mrs.  Hatchard  looked  bewildered.  "Well,  there 
it  is,"  she  said,  indicating  the  table.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  feed  you,  do  you  ?" 

The  lodger  eyed  the  small,  dry  piece  of  cheese,  the 
bread  and  butter,  and  his  face  fell.  "  I — I  thought  I 
smelled  something  cooking,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  that  was  my  supper,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard, 
with  a  smile. 

"I — I'm  very  hungry,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  trying 
to  keep  his  temper. 

"It's  the  cold  weather,  I  expect,"  said  Mrs. 
Hatchard,  thoughtfully;  "it  does  affect  some  peo- 
ple that  way,  I  know.  Please  ring  if  you  want  any- 
thing." 

She  left  the  room,  humming  blithely,  and  Mr. 
Hatchard,  after  sitting  for  some  time  in  silent  con- 
sternation, got  up  and  ate  his  frugal  meal.  The  fact 
that  the  water-jug  held  three  pints  and  was  filled  to 
the  brim  gave  him  no  satisfaction. 

He  was  still  hungry  when  he  arose  next  morning, 
and,  with  curiosity  tempered  by  uneasiness,  waited 
for  his  breakfast.  Mrs.  Hatchard  came  in  at  last, 
and  after  polite  inquiries  as  to  how  he  had  slept  pro- 
ceeded to  lay  breakfast.  A  fresh  loaf  and  a  large 
teapot  appeared,  and  the  smell  of  frizzling  bacon 
ascended  from  below.  Then  Mrs.  Hatchard  came 
in  again,  and,  smiling  benevolently,  placed  an  egg 

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Homeward   Bound 

before  him  and  withdrew.  Two  minutes  later  he 
rang  the  bell. 

"You  can  clear  away,"  he  said,  as  Mrs.  Hatchard 
entered  the  room. 

"What,  no  breakfast?"  she  said,  holding  up  her 
hands.  "Well,  I've  heard  of  you  single  young  men, 
but  I  never  thought " 

"The  tea's  cold  and  as  black  as  ink,"  growled  the 
indignant  lodger,  "and  the  egg  isn't  eatable." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  bit  of  a  fault-finder,"  said 
Mrs.  Hatchard,  shaking  her  head  at  him.  "I'm 
sure  I  try  my  best  to  please.  I  don't  mind  what  I  do, 
but  if  you're  not  satisfied  you'd  better  go." 

"Look  here,  Emily — "  began  her  husband. 

"Don't  you  'Emily'  me!"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard, 
quickly.  "The  idea!  A  lodger,  too!  You  know 
the  arrangement.  You'd  better  go,  I  think,  if  you 
can't  behave  yourself." 

"I  won't  go  till  my  three  weeks  are  up,"  said  Mr. 
Hatchard,  doggedly,  "so  you  may  as  well  behave 
yourself" 

"I  can't  pamper  you  for  a  pound  a  week,"  said 
Mrs.  Hatchard,  walking  to  the  door.  "  If  you  want 
pampering,  you  had  better  go." 

A  week  passed,  and  the  additional  expense  caused 
by  getting  most  of  his  meals  out  began  to  affect  Mr. 
Hatchard's  health.  His  wife,  on  the  contrary,  was  in 

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excellent  spirits,  and,  coming  in  one  day,  explained 
the  absence  of  the  easy-chair  by  stating  that  it  was 
wanted  for  a  new  lodger. 

"He's  taken  my  other  two  rooms,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing— "the  little  back  parlor  and  the  front  bedroom 
— I'm  full  up  now." 

"Wouldn't  he  like  my  table,  too?"  inquired  Mr. 
Hatchard,  with  bitter  sarcasm. 

His  wife  said  that  she  would  inquire,  and  brought 
back  word  next  day  that  Mr.  Sadler,  the  new  lodger, 
would  like  it.  It  disappeared  during  Mr.  Hatchard's 
enforced  absence  at  business,  and  a  small  bamboo 
table,  weak  in  the  joints,  did  duty  in  its  stead. 

The  new  lodger,  a  man  of  middle  age  with  a  ready 
tongue,  was  a  success  from  the  first,  and  it  was  only 
too  evident  that  Mrs.  Hatchard  was  trying  her  best 
\.j  please  him.  Mr.  Hatchard,  supping  on  bread 
and  cheese,  more  than  once  left  that  wholesome  meal 
to  lean  over  the  balusters  and  smell  the  hot  meats 
going  into  Mr.  Sadler. 

"You're  spoiling  him,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Hatchard, 
after  the  new  lodger  had  been  there  a  week.  "Mark 
my  words — he'll  get  above  himself." 

"That's  my  look-out,"  said  his  wife  briefly. 

"Don't  come  to  me  if  you  get  into  trouble,  that's 
all,"  said  the  other. 

Mrs.  Hatchard  laughed  derisively.  "You  don't 

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Homeward   Bound 

like  him,  that's  what  it  is,"  she  remarked.  "He  asked 
me  yesterday  whether  he  had  offended  you  in  any 
way." 

"Oh!  He  did,  did  he?"  snarled  Mr.  Hatchard. 
"  Let  him  keep  himself  to  himself,  and  mind  his  own 
business." 

"He  said  he  thinks  you  have  got  a  bad  temper," 
continued  his  wife.  "He  thinks,  perhaps,  it's  indi- 
gestion, caused  by  eating  cheese  for  supper  always." 

Mr.  Hatchard  affected  not  to  hear,  and,  lighting 
his  pipe,  listened  for  some  time  to  the  hum  of  con- 
versation between  his  wife  and  Mr.  Sadler  below. 
With  an  expression  of  resignation  on  his  face  that  was 
almost  saintly  he  knocked  out  his  pipe  at  last  and 
went  to  bed. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  he  was  still  awake.  His 
wife's  voice  had  ceased,  but  the  gruff  tones  of  Mr. 
Sadler  were  still  audible.  Then  he  sat  up  in  bed 
and  listened,  as  a  faint  cry  of  alarm  and  the  sound  of 
somebody  rushing  upstairs  fell  on  his  ears.  The 
next  moment  the  door  of  his  room  burst  open,  and 
a  wild  figure,  stumbling  in  the  darkness,  rushed  over 
to  the  bed  and  clasped  him  in  its  arms. 

"Help!"  gasped  his  wife's  voice.  "Oh,  Alfred! 
Alfred!" 

"Ma'am!"  said  Mr.  Hatchard  in  a  prim  voice,  as 
he  struggled  in  vain  to  free  himself. 

45 


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"I'm  so — so — fr-frightened ! "  sobbed  Mrs.  Hatch- 
ard. 

"That's  no  reason  for  coming  into  a  lodger's  room 
and  throwing  your  arms  round  his  neck,"  said  her 
husband,  severely. 

"Don't  be  stu-stu-stupid,"  gasped  Mrs.  Hatchard. 
"He — he's  sitting  downstairs  in  my  room  with  a 
paper  cap  on  his  head  and  a  fire-shovel  in  his  hand, 
and  he — he  says  he's  the — the  Emperor  of  China." 

"  He  ?     Who  ? "  inquired  her  husband. 

"Mr.  Sad-Sadler,"  replied  Mrs.  Hatchard,  almost 
strangling  him.  "He  made  me  kneel  in  front  of 
him  and  keep  touching  the  floor  with  my  head." 

The  chair-bedstead  shook  in  sympathy  with  Mr. 
Hatchard's  husbandly  emotion. 

"Well,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  he  said  at  last. 

"He's  mad,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  tense  whisper; 
"stark  staring  mad.  He  says  I'm  his  favorite  wife, 
and  he  made  me  stroke  his  forehead." 

The  bed  shook  again. 

"I  don't  see  that  I  have  any  right  to  interfere," 
said  Mr.  Hatchard,  after  he  had  quieted  the  bedstead. 
"He's  your  lodger." 

"You're  my  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Hatchard. 

"Ho!"  said  Mr.  Hatchard.  "You've  remembered 
that,  have  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Alfred,"  said  his  wife. 

46 


Homeward   Bound 

"And  are  you  sorry  for  all  your  bad  behavior?" 
demanded  Mr.  Hatchard. 

Mrs.  Hatchard  hesitated.  Then  a  clatter  of  fire- 
irons  downstairs  moved  her  to  speech. 

"Ye-yes,"  she  sobbed. 

"And  you  want  me  to  take  you  back  ?"  queried  the 
generous  Mr.  Hatchard. 

"Ye-ye-yes,"  said  his  wife. 

Mr.  Hatchard  got  out  of  bed  and  striking  a  match 
lit  the  candle,  and,  taking  his  overcoat  from  a  peg 
behind  the  door,  put  it  on  and  marched  downstairs. 
Mrs.  Hatchard,  still  trembling,  followed  behind. 

"What's  all  this?"  he  demanded,  throwing  the 
door  open  with  a  flourish. 

Mr.  Sadler,  still  holding  the  fire-shovel  sceptre- 
fashion  and  still  with  the  paper  cap  on  his  head, 
opened  his  mouth  to  reply.  Then,  as  he  saw  the 
unkempt  figure  of  Mr.  Hatchard  with  the  scared 
face  of  Mrs.  Hatchard  peeping  over  his  shoulder,  his 
face  grew  red,  his  eyes  watered,  and  his  cheeks 
swelled. 

"K-K-K-Kch!     K-Kch!"  he  said,  explosively. 

"Talk  English,  not  Chinese,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard, 
sternly. 

Mr.  Sadler  threw  down  the  fire-shovel,  and  to 
Mr.  Hatchard's  great  annoyance,  clapped  his  open 
hand  over  his  mouth  and  rocked  with  merriment. 

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"Sh — sh — she — she — "  he  spluttered. 

"That'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  hastily,  with  a 
warning  frown. 

"Kow-towed  to  me,"  gurgled  Mr.  Sadler.  "You 
ought  to  have  seen  it,  Alf.  I  shall  never  get  over 
it — never.  It's — no — no  good  win-winking  at  me; 
I  can't  help  myself." 

He  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  and  leaned  back 
exhausted.  When  he  removed  it,  he  found  himself 
alone  and  everything  still  but  for  a  murmur  of  voices 
overhead.  Anon  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs,  and 
Mr.  Hatchard,  grave  of  face,  entered  the  room. 

"Outside!"  he  said,  briefly. 

"What!"  said  the  astounded  Mr.  Sadler.  "Why, 
it's  eleven  o'clock." 

"I  can't  help  it  if  it's  twelve  o'clock,"  was  the  reply. 
"You  shouldn't  play  the  fool  and  spoil  things  by 
laughing.  Now,  are  you  going,  or  have  I  got  to  put 
you  out  ? " 

He  crossed  the  room  and,  putting  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  protesting  Mr.  Sadler,  pushed  him 
into  the  passage,  and  taking  his  coat  from  the  peg 
held  it  up  for  him.  Mr.  Sadler,  abandoning  himself 
to  his  fate,  got  into  it  slowly  and  indulged  in  a  few 
remarks  on  the  subject  of  ingratitude. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  his  friend,  in  a  low  voice, 
"I've  had  to  swear  I've  never  seen  you  before." 


49 


Homeward   Bound 

"Does  she  believe  you?"  said  the  staring  Mr. 
Sadler,  shivering  at  the  open  door. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Hatchard,  slowly,  "but  she  pre- 
tends to." 


SELF-HELP 


"  'E  comes  along  and  hits  you  over  your  tendercst  corn  with  a  oar: 


Self-Help 


THE  night-watchman  sat  brooding  darkly  over 
life  and  its  troubles.  A  shooting  corn  on 
the  little  toe  of  his  left  foot,  and  a  touch  of 
liver,  due,  he  was  convinced,  to  the  unlawful  cellar 
work  of  the  landlord  of  the  Queen's  Head,  had  in- 
duced in  him  a  vein  of  profound  depression.  A 
discarded  boot  stood  by  his  side,  and  his  gray- 
stockinged  foot  protruded  over  the  edge  of  the  jetty 
until  a  passing  waterman  gave  it  a  playful  rap  with 
his  oar.  A  subsequent  inquiry  as  to  the  price  of  pigs' 
trotters  fell  on  ears  rendered  deaf  by  suffering. 

"I  might  'ave  expected  it,"  said  the  watchman,  at 
last.  "  I  done  that  man — if  you  can  call  him  a  man 
— a  kindness  once,  and  this  is  my  reward  for  it.  Do 
a  man  a  kindness,  and  years  arterwards  'e  comes 
along  and  hits  you  over  your  tenderest  corn  with  a 
oar." 

He  took  up  his  boot,  and,  inserting  his  foot  with 
loving  care,  stooped  down  and  fastened  the  laces. 

Do  a  man  a  kindness,  he  continued,  assuming  a 
safer  posture,  and  'e  tries  to  borrow  money  off  of  you; 

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do  a  woman  a  kindness  and  she  thinks  you  want  to 
marry  'er;  do  an  animal  a  kindness  and  it  tries  to 
bite  you — same  as  a  horse  bit  a  sailorman  I  knew 
once,  when  'e  sat  on  its  head  to  'elp  it  get  up.  He  sat 
too  far  for'ard,  pore  chap. 

Kindness  never  gets  any  thanks.  I  remember  a 
man  whose  pal  broke  'is  leg  while  they  was  working 
together  unloading  a  barge;  and  he  went  off  to  break 
the  news  to  'is  pal's  wife.  A  kind-'earted  man  'e 
was  as  ever  you  see,  and,  knowing  'ow  she  would  take 
on  when  she  'card  the  news,  he  told  her  fust  of  all 
that  'er  husband  was  killed.  She  took  on  like  a  mad 
thing,  and  at  last,  when  she  couldn't  do  anything 
more  and  'ad  quieted  down  a  bit,  he  told  'er  that  it 
was  on'y  a  case  of  a  broken  leg,  thinking  that  'er 
joy  would  be  so  great  that  she  wouldn't  think  any- 
thing of  that.  He  'ad  to  tell  her  three  times  afore 
she  understood  'im,  and  then,  instead  of  being 
thankful  to  'im  for  'is  thoughtfulness,  she  chased 
him  'arf  over  Wapping  with  a  chopper,  screaming 
with  temper. 

I  remember  Ginger  Dick  and  Peter  Russet  trying 
to  do  old  Sam  Small  a  kindness  one  time  when  they 
was  'aving  a  rest  ashore  arter  a  v'y'ge.  They  'ad 
took  a  room  together  as  usual,  and  for  the  fust  two 
or  three  days  they  was  like  brothers.  That  couldn't 
last,  o'  course,  and  Sam  was  so  annoyed  one  evening 

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at  Ginger's  suspiciousness  by  biting  a  'arf-dollar  Sam 
owed  'im  and  finding  it  was  a  bad  'un,  that  'e  went 
off  to  spend  the  evening  all  alone  by  himself. 

He  felt  a  bit  dull  at  fust,  but  arter  he  had  'ad  two 
or  three  'arf-pints  'e  began  to  take  a  brighter  view 
of  things.  He  found  a  very  nice,  cosey  little  public- 
'ouse  he  hadn't  been  in  before,  and,  arter  getting  two 
and  threepence  and  a  pint  for  the  'arf-dollar  with 
Ginger's  tooth-marks  on,  he  began  to  think  that  the 
world  wasn't  'arf  as  bad  a  place  as  people  tried  to 
make  out. 

There  was  on'y  one  other  man  in  the  little  bar  Sam 
was  in — a  tall,  dark  chap,  with  black  side-whiskers 
and  spectacles,  wot  kept  peeping  round  the  partition 
and  looking  very  'ard  at  everybody  that  came  in. 

"I'm  just  keeping  my  eye  on  'em,  cap'n,"  he  ses  to 
Sam,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Ho!"  ses  Sam. 

"They  don't  know  me  in  this  disguise,"  ses  the 
dark  man,  "  but  I  see  as  'ow  you  spotted  me  at  once. 
Anybody  'ud  have  a  'ard  time  of  it  to  deceive  you; 
and  then  they  wouldn't  gain  nothing  by  it." 

"Nobody  ever  'as  yet,"  ses  Sam,  smiling  at  'im. 

"And  nobody  ever  will,"  ses  the  dark  man,  shaking 
his  'ead;  "if  they  was  all  as  fly  as  you,  I  might  as  well 
put  the  shutters  up.  How  did  you  twig  I  was  a 
detective  officer,  cap'n  ?" 

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Self-Help 

Sam,  wot  was  taking  a  drink,  got  some  beer  up  'is 
nose  with  surprise. 

"  That's  my  secret,"  he  ses,  arter  the  tec  'ad  patted 
'im  on  the  back  and  brought  'im  round. 

"You're  a  marvel,  that's  wot  you  are,"  ses  the  tec, 
shaking  his  'ead.  "Have  one  with  me." 

Sam  said  he  didn't  mind  if  'e  did,  and  arter  drink- 
ing each  other's  healths  very  perlite  'e  ordered  a 
couple  o'  twopenny  smokes,  and  by  way  of  showing 
off  paid  for  'em  with  'arf  a  quid. 

"That's  right,  ain't  it?"  ses  the  barmaid,  as  he 
stood  staring  very  'ard  at  the  change.  "  I  ain't  sure 
about  that  'arf-crown,  now  I  come  to  look  at  it;  but 
it's  the  one  you  gave  me." 

Pore  Sam,  with  a  tec  standing  alongside  of  'im, 
said  it  was  quite  right,  and  put  it  into  'is  pocket  in  a 
hurry  and  began  to  talk  to  the  tec  as  fast  as  he  could 
about  a  murder  he 'ad  been  reading  about  in  the  paper 
that  morning.  They  went  and  sat  down  by  a  com- 
fortable little  fire  that  was  burning  in  the  bar,  and  the 
tec  told  'im  about  a  lot  o*  murder  cases  he  'ad  been 
on  himself. 

"I'm  down  'ere  now  on  special  work,"  he  ses, 
"looking  arter  sailormen." 

"Wot  ha'  they  been  doing?"  ses  Sam. 

"When  I  say  looking  arter,  I  mean  protecting  'em," 
ses  the  tec.  "Over  and  over  agin  some  pore  feller, 

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Self-Help 

arter  working  'ard  for  months  at  sea,  comes  'ome 
with  a  few  pounds  in  'is  pocket  and  gets  robbed  of  the 
lot.  There's  a  couple  o'  chaps  down  'ere  I'm  told 
off  to  look  arter  special,  but  it's  no  good  unless  I  can 
catch  'em  red-'anded." 

"Red-'anded?"  ses  Sam. 

"With  their  hands  in  the  chap's  pockets,  I  mean," 
ses  the  tec. 

Sam  gave  a  shiver.  "  Somebody  had  their  'ands  in 
my  pockets  once,"  he  ses.  "  Four  pun  ten  and  some 
coppers  they  got." 

"Wot  was  they  like?"  ses  the  tec,  starting. 

Sam  shook  his  'ead.  "They  seemed  to  me  to  be 
all  hands,  that's  all  I  know  about  'em,"  he  ses. 
"Arter  they  'ad  finished  they  leaned  me  up  agin  the 
dock  wall  an'  went  off." 

"It  sounds  like  'em,"  ses  the  tec,  thoughtfully. 
"It  was  Long  Pete  and  Fair  Alf,  for  a  quid;  that's 
the  two  I'm  arter." 

He  put  his  finger  in  'is  weskit-pocket.  "That's 
who  I  am,"  he  ses,  'anding  Sam  a  card;  "Detective- 
Sergeant  Cubbins.  If  you  ever  get  into  any  trouble 
at  any  time,  you  come  to  me." 

Sam  said  'e  would,  and  arter  they  had  'ad  another 
drink  together  the  tec  shifted  'is  seat  alongside  of  'im 
and  talked  in  his  ear. 

"  If  I  can  nab  them  two  chaps  I  shall  get  promo- 
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Self-Help 

tion,"  he  ses;  "  and  it's  a  fi'-pun  note  to  anybody  that 
helps  me.  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to." 

"'Ow's  it  to  be  done  ?"  ses  Sam,  looking  at  'im. 

"I  want  a  respectable-looking  seafaring  man,"  ses 
the  tec,  speaking  very  slow;  "that's  you.  He  goes 
up  Tower  Hill  to-morrow  night  at  nine  o'clock,  walk- 
ing very  slow  and  very  unsteady  on  'is  pins,  and  giving 
my  two  beauties  the  idea  that  'e  is  three  sheets  in  the 
wind.  They  come  up  and  rob  'im,  and  I  catch  them 
red-'anded.  I  get  promotion,  and  you  get  a  fiver." 

"  But  'ow  do  you  know  they'll  be  there  ?"  ses  Sam, 
staring  at  'im. 

Mr.  Cubbins  winked  at  'im  and  tapped  'is  nose. 

"We  'ave  to  know  a  good  deal  in  our  line  o'  busi- 
ness," he  ses. 

"Still,"  ses  Sam,  "I  don't  see- 

" Narks,"  says  the  tec;  "coppers'  narks.  You've 
'card  of  them,  cap'n  ?  Now,  look  'ere.  Have  you 
got  any  money  ?" 

"I  got  a  matter  o'  twelve  quid  or  so,"  ses  Sam,  in  a 
off-hand  way. 

"The  very  thing,"  says  the  tec.  "  Well,  to-morrow 
night  you  put  that  in  your  pocket,  and  be  walking  up 
Tower  Hill  just  as  the  clock  strikes  nine.  I  promise 
you  you'll  be  robbed  afore  two  minutes  past,  and  by 
two  and  a  'arf  past  I  shall  'ave  my  hands  on  both  of 
'em.  Have  all  the  money  in  one  pocket,  so  as  they 

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Mr.  Cubbins  winked  at  'im  and  tapped  'is  nose. 


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can  get  it  neat  and  quick,  in  case  they  get  interrupted. 
Better  still,  'ave  it  in  a  purse;  that  makes  it  easier 
to  bring  it  'ome  to  'em." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  enough  if  they  stole  the  purse  ?" 
ses  Sam.  "I  should  feel  safer  that  way,  too." 

Mr.  Cubbins  shook  his  'ead,  very  slow  and  solemn. 
"  That  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  he  ses.  "  The  more  money 
they  steal,  the  longer  they'll  get;  you  know  that, 
cap'n,  without  me  telling  you.  If  you  could  put  fifty 
quid  in  it  would  be  so  much  the  better.  And,  what- 
ever you  do,  don't  make  a  noise.  I  don't  want  a 
lot  o'  clumsy  policemen  interfering  in  my  business." 

"Still,  s'pose  you  didn't  catch  'em,"  ses  Sam, 
"where  should  I  be?" 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  o'  that,"  ses  the  tec,  with  a 
laugh.  "Here,  I'll  tell  you  wot  I'll  do,  and  that'll 
show  you  the  trust  I  put  in  you." 

He  drew  a  big  di'mond  ring  off  of  'is  finger  and 
handed  it  to  Sam. 

"Put  that  on  your  finger,"  he  ses,  "and  keep  it 
there  till  I  give  you  your  money  back  and  the  fi'-pun 
note  reward.  It's  worth  seventy  quid  if  it's  worth  a 
farthing,  and  was  given  to  me  by  a  lady  of  title  for 
getting  back  'er  jewellery  for  'er.  Put  it  on,  and 
wotever  you  do,  don't  lose  it." 

He  sat  and  watched  while  Sam  forced  it  on  'is 
finger. 

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"You  don't  need  to  flash  it  about  too  much,"  he 
ses,  looking  at  'im  rather  anxious.  "There's  men  I 
know  as  'ud  cut  your  finger  off  to  get  that." 

Sam  shoved  his  'and  in  his  pocket,  but  he  kept 
taking  it  out  every  now  and  then  and  'olding  his 
finger  up  to  the  light  to  look  at  the  di'mond.  Mr. 
Cubbins  got  up  to  go  at  last,  saying  that  he  'ad  got  a 
call  to  make  at  the  police-station,  and  they  went  out 
together. 

"Nine  o'clock  sharp,"  he  ses,  as  they  shook 
hands,  "on  Tower  Hill." 

'Til  be  there,"  ses  Sam. 

"And,  wotever  you  do,  no  noise,  no  calling  out," 
ses  the  tec,  "  and  don't  mention  a  word  of  this  to  a 
living  soul." 

Sam  shook  'ands  with  'im  agin,  and  then,  hiding 
his  'and  in  his  pocket,  went  off  'ome,  and,  finding 
Ginger  and  Peter  Russet  wasn't  back,  went  off  to  bed. 

He  'card  'em  coming  upstairs  in  the  dark  in  about 
an  hour's  time,  and,  putting  the  'and  with  the  ring  on 
it  on  the  counterpane,  shut  'is  eyes  and  pretended  to 
be  fast  asleep.  Ginger  lit  the  candle,  and  they  was 
both  beginning  .to  undress  when  Peter  made  a  noise 
and  pointed  to  Sam's  'and. 

"Wot's  up?"  ses  Ginger,  taking  the  candle  and 
going  over  to  Sam's  bed.  "Who've  you  been  rob- 
bing, you  fat  pirate?" 

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Self-Help 

Sam  kept  'is  eyes  shut  and  'card  'em  whispering; 
then  he  felt  'em  take  'is  hand  up  and  look  at  it. 

"Where  did  you  get  it,  Sam  ?"  ses  Peter. 

"He's  asleep,"  ses  Ginger,  "sound  asleep.  I 
b'lieve  if  I  was  to  put  'is  finger  in  the  candle  he 
wouldn't  wake  up." 

"  You  try  it,"  ses  Sam,  sitting  up  in  bed  very  sharp 
and  snatching  his  'and  away.  "Wot  d'ye  mean 
coming  'ome  at  all  hours  and  waking  me  up  ?" 

"Where  did  you  get  that  ring?"  ses  Ginger. 

"Friend  o'  mine,"  ses  Sam,  very  short. 

"Who  was  it?"  ses  Peter. 

"It's  a  secret,"  ses  Sam. 

"You  wouldn't  'ave  a  secret  from  your  old  pal 
Ginger,  Sam,  would  you  ?"  ses  Ginger. 

"Old  wot  ?"  ses  Sam.  "Wot  did  you  call  me  this 
arternoon  ?" 

"I  called  you  a  lot  o'  things  I'm  sorry  for,"  ses 
Ginger,  who  was  bursting  with  curiosity,  "and  I  beg 
your  pardin,  Sam." 

"Shake  'ands  on  it,"  ses  Peter,  who  was  nearly  as 
curious  as  Ginger. 

They  shook  hands,  but  Sam  said  he  couldn't  tell 
'em  about  the  ring;  and  several  times  Ginger  was  on 
the  point  of  calling  'im  the  names  he  'ad  called  'im 
in  the  arternoon,  on'y  Peter  trod  on  'is  foot  and 
stopped  him.  They  wouldn't  let  'im  go  to  sleep  for 

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talking,  and  at  last,  when  'e  was  pretty  near  tired 
out,  he  told  'em  all  about  it. 

"Going — to  'ave  your — pocket  picked  ?"  ses  Gin- 
ger, staring  at  'im,  when  'e  had  finished. 

"I  shall  be  watched  over,"  ses  Sam. 

"He's  gorn  stark,  staring  mad,"  ses  Ginger. 
"Wot  a  good  job  it  is  he's  got  me  and  you  to  look 
arter  'im,  Peter." 

"Wot  d'ye  mean?"  ses  Sam. 

"Mean?"  ses  Ginger.  "Why,  it's  a  put-up  job 
to  rob  you,  o'  course.  I  should  ha'  thought  even  your 
fat  'ead  could  ha'  seen  that!" 

"When  I  want  your  advice  I'll  ask  you  for  it," 
ses  Sam,  losing  'is  temper.  "Wot  about  the  di'mond 
ring — eh  ?" 

"You  stick  to  it,"  ses  Ginger,  "and  keep  out  o' 
Mr.  Cubbins's  way.  That's  my  advice  to  you. 
'Sides,  p'r'aps  it  ain't  a  real  one." 

Sam  told  'im  agin  he  didn't  want  none  of  'is  advice, 
and,  as  Ginger  wouldn't  leave  off  talking,  he  pre- 
tended to  go  to  sleep.  Ginger  woke  'im  up  three  times 
to  tell  'im  wot  a  fool  'e  was,  but  'e  got  so  fierce  that 
he  gave  it  up  at  last  and  told  'im  to  go  'is  own  way. 

Sam  wouldn't  speak  to  either  of  'em  next  morning, 
and  arter  breakfast  he  went  off  on  'is  own.  He  came 
back  while  Peter  and  Ginger  was  out,  and  they  wasted 
best  part  o'  the  day  trying  to  find  'im. 

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Self-Help 

"We'll  be  on  Tower  Hill  just  afore  nine  and  keep 
'im  out  o'  mischief,  any  way,"  ses  Peter. 

Ginger  nodded.  "And  be  called  names  for  our 
pains,"  he  ses.  "I've  a  good  mind  to  let  'im  be 
robbed." 

"It  'ud  serve  'im  right,"  ses  Peter,  "on'y  then  he'd 
want  to  borrer  off  of  us.  Look  here!  Why  not — 
why  not  rob  'im  ourselves  ?" 

"  Wot  ?  "  ses  Ginger,  starting. 

"Walk  up  behind  'im  and  rob  'im,"  ses  Peter. 
"He'll  think  it's  them  two  chaps  he  spoke  about, 
and  when  'e  comes  'ome  complaining  to  us  we'll 
tell  'im  it  serves  'im  right.  Arter  we've  'ad  a  game 
with  'im  for  a  day  or  two  we'll  give  'im  Vis  money 
back." 

"But  he'd  reckernize  us,"  ses  Ginger. 

"  We  must  disguise  ourselves,"  ses  Peter,  in  a 
whisper.  "There's  a  barber's  shop  in  Cable  Street, 
where  I've  seen  beards  in  the  winder.  You  hook 
'em  on  over  your  ears.  Get  one  o'  them  each,  pull 
our  caps  over  our  eyes  and  turn  our  collars  up,  and 
there  you  are." 

Ginger  made  a  lot  of  objections,  not  because  he 
didn't  think  it  was  a  good  idea,  but  because  he  didn't 
like  Peter  thinking  of  it  instead  of  'im;  but  he  gave 
way  at  last,  and,  arter  he  'ad  got  the  beard,  he  stood 
for  a  long  time  in  front  o'  the  glass  thinking  wot  a 


Self-Help 

difference  it  would  ha'  made  to  his  looks  if  he  had  'ad 
black  'air  instead  o'  red. 

Waiting  for  the  evening  made  the  day  seem  very 
long  to  'em;  but  it  came  at  last,  and,  with  the  beards 
in  their  pockets,  they  slipped  out  and  went  for  a 
walk  round.  They  'ad  'arf  a  pint  each  at  a  public- 
'ouse  at  the  top  of  the  Minories,  just  to  steady  them- 
selves, and  then  they  came  out  and  hooked  on  their 
beards;  and  wot  with  them,  and  pulling  their  caps 
down  and  turning  their  coat-collars  up,  there  wasn't 
much  of  their  faces  to  be  seen  by  anybody. 

It  was  just  five  minutes  to  nine  when  they  got  to 
Tower  Hill,  and  they  walked  down  the  middle  of  the 
road,  keeping  a  bright  lookout  for  old  Sam.  A  little 
way  down  they  saw  a  couple  o'  chaps  leaning  up  agin 
a  closed  gate  in  the  dock  wall  lighting  their  pipes, 
and  Peter  and  Ginger  both  nudged  each  other  with 
their  elbows  at  the  same  time.  They  'ad  just  got 
to  the  bottom  of  the  Hill  when  Sam  turned  the 
corner. 

Peter  wouldn't  believe  at  fust  that  the  old  man 
wasn't  really  the  worse  for  liquor,  'e  was  so  lifelike. 
Many  a  drunken  man  would  ha'  been  proud  to  ha' 
done  it  'arf  so  well,  and  it  made  'im  pleased  to  think 
that  Sam  was  a  pal  of  'is.  Him  and  Ginger  turned 
and  crept  up  behind  the  old  man  on  tiptoe,  and  then 
all  of  a  sudden  he  tilted  Sam's  cap  over  'is  eyes  and 

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flung  his  arms  round  'im,  while  Ginger  felt  in  'is 
coat-pockets  and  took  out  a  leather  purse  chock  full 
o'  money. 

It  was  all  done  and  over  in  a  moment,  and  then,  to 
Ginger's  great  surprise,  Sam  suddenly  lifted  'is  foot 
and  gave  'im  a  fearful  kick  on  the  shin  of  'is  leg,  and 
at  the  same  time  let  drive  with  all  his  might  in  'is 
face.  Ginger  went  down  as  if  he  'ad  been  shot,  and 
as  Peter  went  to  'elp  him  up  he  got  a  bang  over  the 
'ead  that  put  'im  alongside  o'  Ginger,  arter  which 
Sam  turned  and  trotted  off  down  the  Hill  like  a 
dancing-bear. 

For  'arf  a  minute  Ginger  didn't  know  where  'e  was, 
and  afore  he  found  out  the  two  men  they'd  seen  in  the 
gateway  came  up,  and  one  of  'em  put  his  knee  in 
Ginger's  back  and  'eld  him,  while  the  other  caught 
hold  of  his  'and  and  dragged  the  purse  out  of  it. 
Arter  which  they  both  made  off  up  the  Hill  as  'ard 
as  they  could  go,  while  Peter  Russet  in  a  faint  voice 
called  "Police!"  arter  them. 

He  got  up  presently  and  helped  Ginger  up,  and 
they  both  stood  there  pitying  themselves,  and  'elping 
each  other  to  think  of  names  to  call  Sam. 

"Well,  the  money's  gorn,  and  it's  'is  own  silly 
fault,"  ses  Ginger.  "But  wotever  'appens,  he 
mustn't  know  that  we  had  a  'and  in  it,  mind  that." 

"He  can  starve  for  all  I  care,"  ses  Peter,  feeling  his 

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Self-Help 

'ead.     "I  won't  lend  'im  a  ha'penny — not  a  single, 
blessed  ha'penny." 

"Who'd  ha'  thought  'e  could  ha'  hit  like  that?" 
says  Ginger.  "That's  wot  gets  over  me.  I  never 
'ad  such  a  bang  in  my  life — never.  I'm  going  to  'ave 
a  little  drop  o'  brandy — my  'ead  is  fair  swimming." 

Peter  'ad  one,  too;  but  though  they  went  into  the 
private  bar,  it  wasn't  private  enough  for  them;  and 
when  the  landlady  asked  Ginger  who'd  been  kissing 
'im,  he  put  'is  glass  down  with  a  bang  and  walked 
straight  off  'ome. 

Sam  'adn't  turned  up  by  the  time  they  got  there, 
and  pore  Ginger  took  advantage  of  it  to  put  a  little 
warm  candle-grease  on  'is  bad  leg.  Then  he  bathed 
'is  face  very  careful  and  'elped  Peter  bathe  his  'ead. 
They  'ad  just  finished  when  they  heard  Sam  coming 
upstairs,  and  Ginger  sat  down  on  'is  bed  and  began 
to  whistle,  while  Peter  took  up  a  bit  o' newspaper  and 
stood  by  the  candle  reading  it. 

"Lor*  lumme,  Ginger!"  ses  Sam,  staring  at  'im. 
"What  ha*  you  been  a-doing  to  your  face  ?" 

"Me?"  ses  Ginger,  careless-like.  "Oh,  we  'ad 
a  bit  of  a  scrap  down  Limehouse  way  with  some 
Scotchies.  Peter  got  a  crack  over  the  'ead  at  the 
same  time." 

"  Ah,  I've  'ad  a  bit  of  a  scrap,  too,"  ses  Sam,  smiling 
all  over,  "but  /  didn't  get  marked." 

68 


Self-Help 

"Oh!"  ses  Peter,  without  looking  up  from  'is  paper. 

"Was  it  a  little  boy,  then  ?"  ses  Ginger. 

"No,  it  wasn't  a  little  boy  neither,  Ginger,"  ses 
Sam;  "it  was  a  couple  o'  men  twice  the  size  of  you 
and  Peter  here,  and  I  licked  'em  both.  It  was  the 
two  men  I  spoke  to  you  about  last  night." 

"Oh!"  ses  Peter  agin,  yawning. 

"I  did  a  bit  o'  thinking  this  morning,"  ses  Sam, 
nodding  at  'em,  "and  I  don't  mind  owning  up  that 
it  was  owing  to  wot  you  said.  You  was  right,  Ginger, 
arter  all." 

Ginger  grunted. 

"Fust  thing  I  did  arter  breakfast,"  ses  Sam,  "I 
took  that  di'mond  ring  to  a  pawnshop  and  found  out 
it  wasn't  a  di'mond  ring.  Then  I  did  a  bit  more 
thinking,  and  I  went  round  to  a  shop  I  know  and 
bought  a  couple  o'  knuckle-dusters." 

"Couple  o'  wot  ?"  ses  Ginger,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"Knuckle-dusters,"  ses  Sam,  "and  I  turned  up 
to-night  at  Tower  Hill  with  one  on  each  'and  just  as 
the  clock  was  striking  nine.  I  see  'em  the  moment 
I  turned  the  corner — two  enormous  big  chaps,  a 
yard  acrost  the  shoulders,  coming  down  the  middle 
of  the  road —  You've  got  a  cold,  Ginger!" 

"No,  I  ain't,"  ses  Ginger. 

"  I  pretended  to  be  drunk,  same  as  the  tec  told  me," 
ses  Sam,  "and  then  I  felt  'em  turn  round  and  creep 


Self-Help 

up  behind  me.  One  of  'em  come  up  behind  and  put 
'is  knee  in  my  back  and  caught  me  by  the  throat,  and 
the  other  gave  me  a  punch  in  the  chest,  and  while 
I  was  gasping  for  breath  took  my  purse  away.  Then 
I  started  on  'em." 

"Lor'!"  ses  Ginger,  very  nasty. 

"I  fought  like  a  lion,"  ses  Sam.  "Twice  they  'ad 
me  down,  and  twice  I  got  up  agin  and  hammered 
'em.  They  both  of  'em  'ad  knives,  but  my  blood  was 
up,  and  I  didn't  take  no  more  notice  of  'em  than  if 
they  was  made  of  paper.  I  knocked  'em  both  out  o' 
their  hands,  and  if  I  hit  'em  in  the  face  once  I  did  a 
dozen  times.  I  surprised  myself." 

"You  surprise  me,"  ses  Ginger. 

"All  of  a  sudden,"  ses  Sam,  "they  see  they  'ad  got 
to  do  with  a  man  wot  didn't  know  wot  fear  was,  and 
they  turned  round  and  ran  off  as  hard  as  they  could 
run.  You  ought  to  ha'  been  there,  Ginger.  You'd 
'ave  enjoyed  it." 

Ginger  Dick  didn't  answer  'im.  Having  to  sit  still 
and  listen  to  all  them  lies  without  being  able  to  say 
anything  nearly  choked  'im.  He  sat  there  gasping 
for  breath. 

"O'  course,  you  got  your  purse  back  in  the  fight, 
Sam  ?"  ses  Peter. 

"No,  mate,"  ses  Sam.  "I  ain't  going  to  tell  you 
no  lies — I  did  not." 

70 


Self-Help 

"And  'ow  are  you  going  to  live,  then,  till  you  get  a 
ship,  Sam?"  ses  Ginger,  in  a  nasty  voice.  "You 
won't  get  nothing  out  o'  me,  so  you  needn't  think  it." 


"  Wot  on  earth's  the  matter,  Ginger  ?  " 

"Nor  me,"  ses  Peter.     "Not  a  brass  farthing." 
"There's  no  call  to  be  nasty  about  it,  mates,"  ses 
Sam.     "  I  'ad  the  best  fight  I  ever  'ad  in  my  life,  and 


Self-Help 

I  must  put  up  with  the  loss.  A  man  can't  'ave  it  all 
his  own  way." 

"'Ow  much  was  it  ?"  ses  Peter. 

"Ten  brace-buttons,  three  French  ha'pennies,  and 
a  bit  o'  tin,"  ses  Sam.  "Wot  on  earth's  the  matter, 
Ginger?" 

Ginger  didn't  answer  him. 


SENTENCE   DEFERRED 


An  elderly  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  who  joined  the  indignant  officer 
in  the  pursuit. 


74 


Sentence  Deferred 

FORTUNATELY  for  Captain  Bligh,  there  were 
but  few  people  about,  and  the  only  person 
who  saw  him  trip  Police-Sergeant  Pilbeam 
was  an  elderly  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  who  joined 
the  indignant  officer  in  the  pursuit.  The  captain 
had  youth  on  his  side,  and,  diving  into  the  narrow 
alley-ways  that  constitute  the  older  portion  of  Wood- 
hatch,  he  moderated  his  pace  and  listened  acutely. 
The  sounds  of  pursuit  died  away  in  the  distance,  and 
he  had  already  dropped  into  a  walk  when  the  hurried 
tap  of  the  wooden  leg  sounded  from  one  corner  and  a 
chorus  of  hurried  voices  from  the  other.  It  was  clear 
that  the  number  of  hunters  had  increased. 

He  paused  a  second,  irresolute.  The  next,  he 
pushed  open  a  door  that  stood  ajar  in  an  old  flint  wall 
and  peeped  in.  He  saw  a  small,  brick-paved  yard, 
in  which  trim  myrtles  and  flowering  plants  stood 
about  in  freshly  ochred  pots,  and,  opening  the  door 
a  little  wider,  he  slipped  in  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"Well?"  said  a  voice,  sharply.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

75 


Sentence   Deferred 

Captain  Bligh  turned,  and  saw  a  girl  standing  in 
a  hostile  attitude  in  the  doorway  of  the  house. 

"H'sh!"  he  said,  holding  up  his  finger. 

The  girl's  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  our  yard  ?"  she  demanded. 

The  captain's  face  relaxed  as  the  sound  of  voices 
died  away.  He  gave  his  moustache  a  twist,  and  eyed 
her  with  frank  admiration. 

"Escaping,"  he  said,  briefly.  "They  nearly  had 
me,  though." 

"You  had  no  business  to  escape  into  our  yard," 
said  the  girl.  "  What  have  you  been  escaping  from  ? " 

"Fat  policeman,"  said  the  skipper,  jauntily,  twist- 
ing his  moustache. 

Miss  Pilbeam,  only  daughter  of  Sergeant  Pilbeam, 
caught  her  breath  sharply. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  she  inquired,  as 
soon  as  she  could  control  her  voice. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  skipper,  airily,  "nothing.  I 
was  kicking  a  stone  along  the  path  and  he  told  me  to 
stop  it." 

"Well  ?"  said  Miss  Pilbeam,  impatiently. 

"We  had  words,"  said  the  skipper.  "I  don't  like 
policemen — fat  policemen — and  while  we  were  talk- 
ing he  happened  to  lose  his  balance  and  go  over 
into  some  mud  that  was  swept  up  at  the  side  of  the 
road." 

76 


Sentence   Deferred 

"Lost  his  balance?"  gasped  the  horrified  Miss 
Pilbeam. 

The  skipper  was  flattered  at  her  concern.  "You 
would  have  laughed  if  you  had  seen  him,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "Don't  look  so  frightened;  he  hasn't  got 
me  yet." 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  slowly.     "Not  yet." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  such  a  world  of  longing  in 
her  eyes  that  the  skipper,  despite  a  somewhat  large 
share  of  self-esteem,  was  almost  startled. 

"And  he  shan't  have  me,"  he  said,  returning  her 
gaze  with  interest. 

Miss  Pilbeam  stood  in  silent  thought.  She  was  a 
strong,  well-grown  girl,  but  she  realized  fully  that 
she  was  no  match  for  the  villain  who  stood  before 
her,  twisting  his  moustache  and  adjusting  his  neck- 
tie. And  her  father  would  not  be  off  duty  until 
nine. 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  to  wait  here  until  it  is 
dark?"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  would  sooner  wait  here  than  anywhere,"  said 
the  skipper,  with  respectful  ardor. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  come  in  and  sit  down  ?" 
said  the  girl. 

Captain  Bligh  thanked  her,  and  removing  his  cap 
followed  her  into  a  small  parlor  in  the  front  of  the 
house. 

77 


Sentence   Deferred 

"  Father  is  out,"  she  said,  as  she  motioned  him  to  an 
easy-chair,  "but  I'm  sure  he'll  be  pleased  to  see  you 
when  he  comes  in." 

"And  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  him,"  said  the  inno- 
cent skipper. 

Miss  Pilbeam  kept  her  doubts  to  herself  and  sat  in 
a  brown  study,  wondering  how  the  capture  was  to 
be  effected.  She  had  a  strong  presentiment  that  the 
appearance  of  her  father  at  the  front  door  would  be 
the  signal  for  her  visitor's  departure  at  the  back. 
For  a  time  there  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"Lucky  thing  for  me  I  upset  that  policeman,"  said 
the  skipper,  at  last. 

"Why?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"Else  I  shouldn't  have  come  into  your  yard,"  was 
the  reply.  "It's  the  first  time  we  have  ever  put  into 
Woodhatch,  and  I  might  have  sailed  away  and  never 
seen  you.  Where  should  we  have  been  but  for  that 
fat  policeman  ?" 

Miss  Pilbeam — as  soon  as  she  could  get  her  breath 
— said,  "Ah,  where  indeed!"  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  began  to  feel  the  need  of  a  chaperon. 

"Funny  to  think  of  him  hunting  for  me  high  and 
low  while  I  am  sitting  here,"  said  the  skipper. 

Miss  Pilbeam  agreed  with  him,  and  began  to 
laugh — to  laugh  so  heartily  that  he  was  fain  at  last 
to  draw  his  chair  close  to  hers  and  pat  her  some- 

78 


Sentence   Deferred 

what  anxiously  on  the  back.  The  treatment  so- 
bered her  at  once,  and  she  drew  apart  and  eyed  him 
coldly. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  lose  your  breath,"  ex- 
plained the  skipper,  awkwardly.  "You  are  not 
angry,  are  you  ?" 

He  was  so  genuinely  relieved  when  she  said,  "No," 
that  Miss  Pilbeam,  despite  her  father's  wrongs,  began 
to  soften  a  little.  The  upsetter  of  policemen  was 
certainly  good-looking;  and  his  manner  towards  her 
so  nicely  balanced  between  boldness  and  timidity  that 
a  slight  feeling  of  sadness  at  his  lack  of  moral  char- 
acter began  to  assail  her. 

"Suppose  you  are  caught  after  all?"  she  said, 
presently.  "You  will  go  to  prison." 

The  skipper  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  shall  be,"  he  replied. 

"Aren't  you  sorry?"  persisted  Miss  Pilbeam,  in  a 
vibrant  voice. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  skipper.  "Why,  I 
shouldn't  have  seen  you  if  I  hadn't  done  it." 

Miss  Pilbeam  looked  at  the  clock  and  pondered. 
It  wanted  but  five  minutes  to  nine.  Five  minutes  in 
which  to  make  up  a  mind  that  was  in  a  state  of  strong 
unrest. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  time  for  me  to  go,"  said  the  skipper, 
watching  her, 

79 


Sentence   Deferred 

Miss  Pilbeam  rose.  "No,  don't  go,"  she  said, 
hastily.  "Do  be  quiet.  I  want  to  think." 

Captain  Bligh  waited  in  respectful  silence,  heedless 
of  the  fateful  seconds  ticking  from  the  mantelpiece. 
At  the  sound  of  a  slow,  measured  footfall  on  the 
cobblestone  path  outside  Miss  Pilbeam  caught  his 
arm  and  drew  him  towards  the  door. 

"Go!"  she  breathed.     "No,  stop!" 

She  stood  trying  in  vain  to  make  up  her  mind. 
"Upstairs,"  she  said.  "Quick!"  and,  leading  the 
way,  entered  her  father's  bedroom,  and,  after  a 
moment's  thought,  opened  the  door  of  a  cupboard  in 
the  corner. 

"Get  in  there,"  she  whispered. 

"But — "  objected  the  astonished  Bligh. 

The  front  door  was  heard  to  open. 

"Police!"  said  Miss  Pilbeam,  in  a  thrilling  whis- 
per. The  skipper  stepped  into  the  cupboard  without 
further  parley,  and  the  girl,  turning  the  key,  slipped 
it  into  her  pocket  and  sped  downstairs. 

Sergeant  Pilbeam  was  in  the  easy-chair,  with  his 
belt  unfastened,  when  she  entered  the  parlor,  and, 
with  a  hungry  reference  to  supper,  sat  watching  her 
as  she  lit  the  lamp  and  drew  down  the  blind.  With  a 
lifelong  knowledge  of  the  requirements  of  the  Force, 
she  drew  a  jug  of  beer  and  placed  it  by  his  side  while 
she  set  the  table. 

80 


"Ah!  I  wanted  that,"  said  the  sergeant.  "I've 
been  running." 

Miss  Pilbeam  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"After  some  sailor-looking  chap  that  capsized  me 
when  I  wasn't  prepared  for  it,"  said  her  father,  put- 
ting down  his  glass.  "It  was  a  neat  bit  o'  work, 
and  I  shall  tell  him  so  when  I  catch  him.  Look 
here!" 

He  stood  up  and  exhibited  the  damage. 

"I've  rubbed  off  what  I  could,"  he  said,  resuming 
his  seat,  "and  I  s'pose  the  rest'll  brush  off  when  it's 
dry.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  go  down  to  the 
harbor  and  try  and  spot  my  lord." 

He  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  and  helped  himself, 
and,  filling  his  mouth  with  cold  meat  and  pickles, 
enlarged  on  his  plans  for  the  capture  of  his  assailant; 
plans  to  which  the  undecided  Miss  Pilbeam  turned  a 
somewhat  abstracted  ear. 

By  the  time  her  father  had  finished  his  supper  she 
was  trying,  but  in  vain,  to  devise  means  for  the  pris- 
oner's escape.  The  sergeant  had  opened  the  door  of 
the  room  for  the  sake  of  fresh  air,  and  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  anybody  to  come  downstairs  without  being 
seen.  The  story  of  a  sickly  geranium  in  the  back- 
yard left  him  unmoved. 

"  I  wouldn't  get  up  for  all  the  geraniums  in  the 
world,"  he  declared.  "I'm  just  going  to  have  one 

81 


Sentence   Deferred 

more  pipe  and  then  I'm  off  to  bed.     Running  don't 
agree  with  me." 

He  went,  despite  his  daughter's  utmost  efforts  to 
prevent  him,  and  she  sat  in  silent  consternation,  listen- 
ing to  his  heavy  tread  overhead.  She  heard  the  bed 
creak  in  noisy  protest  as  he  climbed  in,  and  ten 
minutes  later  the  lusty  snoring  of  a  healthy  man  of 
full  habit  resounded  through  the  house. 

She  went  to  bed  herself  at  last,  and,  after  lying 
awake  for  nearly  a  couple  of  hours,  closed  her  eyes 
in  order  to  think  better.  She  awoke  with  the  sun 
pouring  in  at  the  window  and  the  sounds  of  vigorous 
brushing  in  the  yard  beneath. 

"I've  nearly  got  it  off,"  said  the  sergeant,  looking 
up.  "It's  destroying  evidence  in  a  sense,  I  suppose; 
but  I  can't  go  about  with  my  uniform  plastered 
with  mud.  I've  had  enough  chaff  about  it  as 
it  is." 

Miss  Pilbeam  stole  to  the  door  of  the  next  room  and 
peeped  stealthily  in.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the 
cupboard,  and  a  horrible  idea  that  the  prisoner  might 
have  been  suffocated  set  her  trembling  with  appre- 
hension. 

"H'sh!"  she  whispered. 

An  eager  but  stifled  "H'st!"  came  from  the  cup- 
board, and  Miss  Pilbeam,  her  fears  allayed,  stepped 
softly  into  the  room. 

82 


Sentence   Deferred 

"He's  downstairs  brushing  the  mud  off,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Who  is?"  said  the  skipper. 

"The  fat  policeman,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  hard  voice, 
as  she  remembered  her  father's  wrongs. 

"What's  he  doing  it  here  for?"  demanded  the 
astonished  skipper. 

"  Because  he  lives  here." 

"Lodger?"  queried  the  skipper,  more  astonished 
than  before. 

"Father,"  said  Miss  Pilbeam. 

A  horrified  groan  from  the  cupboard  fell  like 
music  on  her  ears.  Then  the  smile  forsook  her  lips, 
and  she  stood  quivering  with  indignation  as  the 
groan  gave  way  to  suppressed  but  unmistakable 
laughter. 

"H'sh!"  she  said  sharply,  and  with  head  erect 
sailed  out  of  the  room  and  went  downstairs  to  give 
Mr.  Pilbeam  his  breakfast. 

To  the  skipper  in  the  confined  space  and  darkness 
of  the  cupboard  the  breakfast  seemed  unending. 
The  sergeant  evidently  believed  in  sitting  over  his 
meals,  and  his  deep,  rumbling  voice,  punctuated  by 
good-natured  laughter,  was  plainly  audible.  To  pass 
the  time  the  skipper  fell  to  counting,  and,  tired  of  that, 
recited  some  verses  that  he  had  acquired  at  school. 
After  that,  and  with  far  more  heartiness,  he  declaimed 

83 


Sentence   Deferred 

a  few  things  that  he  had  learned  since;  and  still  the 
clatter  and  rumble  sounded  from  below. 

It  was  a  relief  to  him  when  he  heard  the  sergeant 
push  his  chair  back  and  move  heavily  about  the  room. 
A  minute  later  he  heard  him  ascending  the  stairs, 
and  then  he  held  his  breath  with  horror  as  the  foot- 
steps entered  the  room  and  a  heavy  hand  was  laid  on 
the  cupboard  door. 

"Elsie!"  bawled  the  sergeant.  "Where's  the  key 
of  my  cupboard  ?  I  want  my  other  boots." 

"They're  down  here,"  cried  the  voice  of  Miss 
Pilbeam,  and  the  skipper,  hardly  able  to  believe  in 
his  good  fortune,  heard  the  sergeant  go  downstairs 
again. 

At  the  expiration  of  another  week — by  his  own 
reckoning — he  heard  the  light,  hurried  footsteps  of 
Miss  Pilbeam  come  up  the  stairs  and  pause  at  the 
door. 

"H'st/"  he  said,  recklessly. 

"I'm  coming,"  said  the  girl.  "Don't  be  im- 
patient." 

A  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  door  was  flung  open, 
and  the  skipper,  dazed  and  blinking  with  the  sudden 
light,  stumbled  into  the  room. 

"  Father's  gone,"  said  Miss  Pilbeam. 

The  skipper  made  no  answer.  He  was  adminis- 
tering first  aid  to  a  right  leg  which  had  temporarily 


Sentence    Deferred 

forgotten  how  to  perform  its  duties,  varied  with  slaps 
and  pinches  at  a  left  which  had  gone  to  sleep.     At 


He  was  administering  first  aid  to  a  right  leg. 

intervals  he  turned  a  red-rimmed  and  reproachful 
eye  on  Miss  Pilbeam. 

"You  want  a  wash  and  some  breakfast,"  she  said, 
softly,   "especially  a  wash.     There's  water   and   a 

85 


Sentence   Deferred 

towel,   and  while  you're  making  yourself  tidy  I'll 
be  getting  breakfast." 

The  skipper  hobbled  to  the  wash-stand,  and,  dip- 
ping his  head  in  a  basin  of  cool  water,  began  to  feel 
himself  again.  By  the  time  he  had  done  his  hair  in 
the  sergeant's  glass  and  twisted  his  moustache  into 
shape  he  felt  better  still,  and  he  went  downstairs 
almost  blithely. 

"I'm  very  sorry  it  was  your  father,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  a  seat  at  the  table.  "Very." 

"That's  why  you  laughed,  I  suppose?"  said  the 
girl,  tossing  her  head. 

"Well,  I've  had  the  worst  of  it,"  said  the  other. 
"I'd  sooner  be  upset  a  hundred  times  than  spend  a 
night  in  that  cupboard.  However,  all's  well  that 
ends  well." 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Pilbeam,  dolefully,  "but  is  it  the 
end?" 

Captain  Bligh  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  and 
eyed  her  uneasily. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  said. 

"Never  mind;  don't  spoil  your  breakfast,"  said 
the  girl.  "I'll  tell  you  afterwards.  It's  horrid  to 
think,  after  all  my  trouble,  of  your  doing  two  months 
as  well  as  a  night  in  the  cupboard." 

"  Beastly,"  said  the  unfortunate,  eying  her  in  great 
concern.  "But  what's  the  matter?" 

86 


Sentence   Deferred 

"One  can't  think  of  everything,"  said  Miss  Pil- 
beam,  "  but,  of  course,  we  ought  to  have  thought  of 
the  mate  getting  uneasy  when  you  didn't  turn  up  last 
night,  and  going  to  the  police-station  with  a  descrip- 
tion of  you." 

The  skipper  started  and  smote  the  table  with  his 
fist. 

"  Father's  gone  down  to  watch  the  ship  now,"  said 
Miss  Pilbeam.  "Of  course,  it's  the  exact  description 
of  the  man  that  assaulted  him.  Providential  he 
called  it." 

"That's  the  worst  of  having  a  fool  for  a  mate," 
said  the  skipper,  bitterly.  "What  business  was  it 
of  his,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  What's  it  got  to  do 
with  him  whether  I  turn  up  or  not  ?  What  does  he 
want  to  interfere  for?" 

"It's  no  good  blaming  him,"  said  Miss  Pilbeam, 
thinking  deeply,  with  her  chin  on  her  finger.  "The 
thing  is,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Once  father  gets  his 
hand  on  you ' 

She  shuddered;   so  did  the  skipper. 

"I  might  get  off  with  a  fine;  I  didn't  hurt  him," 
he  remarked. 

Miss  Pilbeam  shook  her  head.  "They're  very 
strict  in  Woodhatch,"  she  said. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  touch  him  at  all,"  said  the  re- 
pentant skipper.  "High  spirits,  that's  what  it  was. 

8? 


Sentence   Deferred 

High  spirits,  and  being  spoken  to  as  if  I  was  a 
child." 

"The  thing  is,  how  are  you  to  escape?"  said  the 
girl.  "  It's  no  good  going  out  of  doors  with  the  police 
and  half  the  people  in  Woodhatch  all  on  the  look-out 
for  you." 

"If  I  could  only  get  aboard  I  should  be  all  right," 
muttered  the  skipper.  "I  could  keep  down  the  fo'- 
c's'le while  the  mate  took  the  ship  out." 

Miss  Pilbeam  sat  in  deep  thought.  "It's  the  get- 
ting aboard  that's  the  trouble,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"You'd  have  to  disguise  yourself.  It  would  have 
to  be  a  good  disguise,  too,  to  pass  my  father,  I  can 
tell  you." 

Captain  Bligh  gave  a  gloomy  assent. 

"The  only  thing  for  you  to  do,  so  far  as  I  can  see," 
said  the  girl,  slowly,  "is  to  make  yourself  up  like  a 
coalie.  There  are  one  or  two  colliers  in  the  harbor, 
and  if  you  took  off  your  coat — I  could  send  it  on  after- 
wards— rubbed  yourself  all  over  with  coal-dust,  and 
shaved  off  your  moustache,  I  believe  you  would 
escape." 

"Shave!"  ejaculated  the  skipper,  in  choking  ac- 
cents. "Rub—!  Coal-Just /" 

"It's  your  only  chance,"  said  Miss  Pilbeam. 

Captain  Bligh  leaned  back  frowning,  and  from 
sheer  force  of  habit  passed  the  ends  of  his  moustache 


Sentence   Deferred 

slowly  through  his  fingers.  "I  think  the  coal-dust 
would  be  enough,"  he  said  at  last. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "Father  particularly 
noticed  your  moustache,"  she  said. 

"Everybody  does,"  said  the  skipper,  with  mournful 
pride.  "I  won't  part  with  it." 

"Not  for  my  sake  ?"  inquired  Miss  Pilbeam,  eying 
him  mournfully.  "Not  after  all  I've  done  for  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  other,  stoutly. 

Miss  Pilbeam  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes 
and,  with  a  suspicious  little  sniff,  hurried  from  the 
room.  Captain  Bligh,  much  affected,  waited  for  a 
few  seconds  and  then  went  in  pursuit  of  her. 
Fifteen  minutes  later,  shorn  of  his  moustache,  he 
stood  in  the  coal-hole,  sulkily  smearing  himself  with 
coal. 

"That's  better,"  said  the  girl;  "you  look  horrible." 

She  took  up  a  handful  of  coal-dust  and,  ordering 
him  to  stoop,  shampooed  him  with  hearty  good- 
will. 

"No  good  half  doing  it,"  she  declared.  "Now  go 
and  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  in  the  kitchen." 

The  skipper  went,  and  came  back  in  a  state  of  wild- 
eyed  misery.  Even  Miss  Pilbeam's  statement  that 
his  own  mother  would  not  know  him  failed  to  lift 
the  cloud  from  his  brow.  He  stood  disconsolate  as 
the  girl  opened  the  front  door. 


Sentence   Deferred 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  gently.     "Write  and  tell  me 
when  you  are  safe." 

Captain    Bligh   promised,   and   walked   slowly  up 


She  took  up  a  handful  of  coal-dust  and  shampooed  him  with 
hearty  good-will. 

the  road.     So  far  from  people  attempting  to  arrest 
him,  they  vied  with  each  other  in  giving  him  elbow- 

90 


Sentence   Deferred 

room.  He  reached  the  harbor  unmolested,  and, 
lurking  at  a  convenient  corner,  made  a  careful  survey. 
A  couple  of  craft  were  working  out  their  coal,  a  small 
steamer  was  just  casting  loose,  and  a  fishing-boat 
gliding  slowly  over  the  still  water  to  its  berth.  His 
own  schooner,  which  lay  near  the  colliers,  had  ap- 
parently knocked  off  work  pending  his  arrival.  For 
Sergeant  Pilbeam  he  looked  in  vain. 

He  waited  a  minute  or  two,  and  then,  with  a 
furtive  glance  right  and  left,  strolled  in  a  careless 
fashion  until  he  was  abreast  of  one  of  the  colliers. 
Nobody  took  any  notice  of  him,  and,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  he  gazed  meditatively  into  the  water 
and  edged  along  towards  his  own  craft.  His  foot 
trembled  as  he  placed  it  on  the  plank  that  formed  the 
gangway,  but,  resisting  the  temptation  to  look  behind, 
he  gained  the  deck  and  walked  forward. 

"Halloa!  What  do  you  want?"  inquired  a  sea- 
man, coming  out  of  the  galley. 

"All  right,  Bill,"  said  the  skipper,  in  a  low  voice. 
"Don't  take  any  notice  of  me." 

"Eh?"  said  the  seaman,  starting.  "Good  lor'! 
What  ha'  you " 

"Shut  up!"  said  the  skipper,  fiercely;  and,  walking 
to  the  forecastle,  placed  his  hand  on  the  scuttle  and 
descended  with  studied  slowness.  As  he  reached  the 
floor  the  perturbed  face  of  Bill  blocked  the  opening. 

91 


Sentence   Deferred 

"Had  an  accident,  cap'n?"  he  inquired,  respect- 
fully. 

"No,"  snapped  the  skipper.  "Come  down  here — 
quick!  Don't  stand  up  there  attracting  attention. 
Do  you  want  the  whole  town  round  you  ?  Come 
down!" 

"I'm  all  right  where  I  am,"  said  Bill,  backing 
hastily  as  the  skipper,  putting  a  foot  on  the  ladder, 
thrust  a  black  and  furious  face  close  to  his. 

"Clear  out,  then,"  hissed  the  skipper.  "Go  and 
send  the  mate  to  me.  Don't  hurry.  And  if  anybody 
noticed  me  come  aboard  and  should  ask  you  who  I 
am,  say  I'm  a  pal  of  yours." 

The  seaman,  marvelling  greatly,  withdrew,  and 
the  skipper,  throwing  himself  on  a  locker,  wiped  a  bit 
of  grit  out  of  his  eye  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  the 
mate.  He  was  so  long  in  coming  that  he  waxed 
impatient,  and  ascending  a  step  of  the  ladder  again 
peeped  on  to  the  deck.  The  first  object  that 
met  his  gaze  was  the  figure  of  the  mate  leaning 
against  the  side  of  the  ship  with  a  wary  eye  on  the 
scuttle. 

"Come  here,"  said  the  skipper. 

"Anything  wrong?"  inquired  the  mate,  retreating 
a  couple  of  paces  in  disorder. 

"Come — here!"  repeated  the  skipper. 

The  mate  advanced  slowly,  and  in  response  to  an 

9* 


Sentence   Deferred 

imperative  command  from  the  skipper  slowly  de- 
scended and  stood  regarding  him  nervously. 

"Yes;  you  may  look,"  said  the  skipper,  with  sud- 
den ferocity.  "This  is  all  your  doing.  Where  are 
you  going  ?" 

He  caught  the  mate  by  the  coat  as  he  was  making 
for  the  ladder,  and  hauled  him  back  again. 

"You'll  go  when  I've  finished  with  you,"  he  said, 
grimly.  "Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  it?  Eh? 
What  do  you  mean  by  it  ?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  mate,  in  a  soothing 
voice.  "Don't  get  excited." 

"Look  at  me!"  said  the  skipper.  "All  through 
your  interfering.  How  dare  you  go  making  inquiries 
about  me  ?" 

"Me?"  said  the  mate,  backing  as  far  as  possible. 
"Inquiries  ?" 

"What's  it  got  to  do  with  you  if  I  stay  out  all 
night?"  pursued  the  skipper. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  other,  feebly. 

"What  did  you  go  to  the  police  about  me  for, 
then?"  demanded  the  skipper. 

"Me?"  said  the  mate,  in  the  shrill  accents  of 
astonishment.  "Me?  I  didn't  go  to  no  police  about 
you.  Why  should  I?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  report  my  absence 
last  night  to  the  police?"  said  the  skipper,  sternly. 

93 


Sentence   Deferred 

"Cert'nly  not,"  said  the  mate,  plucking  up  courage. 
"Why  should  I  ?  If  you  like  to  take  a  night  off  it's 
nothing  to  do  with  me.  I  'ope  I  know  my  duty 
better.  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"And  the  police  haven't  been  watching  the  ship 
and  inquiring  for  me?"  asked  the  skipper. 

The  mate  shook  his  bewildered  head.  "Why 
should  they?"  he  inquired. 

The  skipper  made  no  reply.  He  sat  goggle-eyed, 
staring  straight  before  him,  trying  in  vain  to  realize 
the  hardness  of  the  heart  that  had  been  responsible 
for  such  a  scurvy  trick. 

"  Besides,  it  ain't  the  fust  time  you've  been  out  all 
night,"  remarked  the  mate,  aggressively. 

The  skipper  favored  him  with  a  glance  the  dignity 
of  which  was  somewhat  impaired  by  his  complexion, 
and  in  a  slow  and  stately  fashion  ascended  to  the 
deck.  Then  he  caught  his  breath  sharply  and  paled 
beneath  the  coal-dust  as  he  saw  Sergeant  Pilbeam 
standing  on  the  quay,  opposite  the  ship.  By  his 
side  stood  Miss  Pilbeam,  and  both,  with  a  far-away 
look  in  their  eyes,  were  smiling  vaguely  but  con- 
tentedly at  the  horizon.  The  sergeant  appeared  to 
be  the  first  to  see  the  skipper. 

"Ahoy,  Darkie!"  he  cried. 

Captain  Bligh,  who  was  creeping  slowly  aft,  halted, 
and,  clenching  his  fists,  regarded  him  ferociously. 

94 


Sentence   Deferred 

"Give  this  to  the  skipper,  will  you,  my  lad  ?"  said 
the  sergeant,  holding  up  the  jacket  Bligh  had  left 


"  Give  this  to  the  skipper,  will  you,  my  lad  ?  "  said  the  sergeant. 

behind.     "Good-looking  young  man  with  a  very  fine 
moustache  he  is." 

"Was,"  said  his  daughter,  in  a  mournful  voice. 

95 


Sentence   Deferred 

"And  a  rather  dark  complexion,"  continued  the 
sergeant,  grinning  madly.  "  I  was  going  to  take  him 
—for  stealing  my  coal — but  I  thought  better  of  it. 
Thought  of  a  better  way.  At  least,  my  daughter  did. 
So  long,  Darkie." 

He  kissed  the  top  of  a  fat  middle  finger,  and, 
turning  away,  walked  off  with  Miss  Pilbeam.  The 
skipper  stood  watching  them  with  his  head  swimming 
until,  arrived  at  the  corner,  they  stopped  and  the 
sergeant  came  slowly  back. 

"I  was  nearly  forgetting,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Tell 
your  skipper  that  if  so  be  as  he  wants  to  apologize — 
for  stealing  my  coal — I  shall  be  at  home  at  tea  at 
five  o'clock." 

He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  Miss  Pil- 
beam and  winked  with  slow  deliberation.  "She'll 
be  there,  too,"  he  added.  "Savvy?" 


MATRIMONIAL  OPENINGS ' 


Miss  Dowson,  subsiding  in  her  chair,  went  on  with  her  book. 


"Matrimonial  Openings" 

MR.  DOWSON  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire  smok- 
ing and  turning  a  docile  and  well-trained 
ear  to  the  heated  words  which  fell  from 
his  wife's  lips. 

"She'll  go  and  do  the  same  as  her  sister  Jenny 
done,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  with  a  side  glance  at  her 
daughter  Flora;  "marry  a  man  and  then  'ave  to 
work  and  slave  herself  to  skin  and  bone  to  keep  him." 

"I  see  Jenny  yesterday,"  said  her  husband,  nod- 
ding. "Getting  quite  fat,  she  is." 

"That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  violently, 
"that's  right!  The  moment  I  say  something  you  go 
and  try  and  upset  it." 

"Un'ealthy  fat,  p'r'aps,"  said  Mr.  Dowson,  hur- 
riedly; "don't  get  enough  exercise,  I  s'pose." 

"Anybody  who  didn't  know  you,  Joe  Dowson," 
said  his  wife,  fiercely,  "would  think  you  was  doing 
it  a  purpose." 

"Doing  wot?"  inquired  Mr.  Dowson,  removing 
his  pipe  and  regarding  her  open-mouthed.  "I  only 
said " 

99 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"  I  know  what  you  said,"  retorted  his  wife.  "  Here 
I  do  my  best  from  morning  to  night  to  make  every- 
body 'appy  and  comfortable;  and  what  happens?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  sympathetic  Mr.  Dowson, 
shaking  his  head.  "Nothing." 

"Anyway,  Jenny  ain't  married  a  fool,"  said  Mrs. 
Dowson,  hotly;  "she's  got  that  consolation." 

"That's  right,  mother,"  said  the  innocent  Mr. 
Dowson,  "look  on  the  bright  side  o'  things  a  bit. 
If  Jenny  'ad  married  a  better  chap  I  don't  suppose 
we  should  see  half  as  much  of  her  as  wot  we  do." 

"I'm  talking  of  Flora,"  said  his  wife,  restraining 
herself  by  an  effort.  "One  unfortunate  marriage 
in  the  family  is  enough;  and  here,  instead  o'  walking 
out  with  young  Ben  Lippet,  who'll  be  'is  own  master 
when  his  father  dies,  she's  gadding  about  with  that 
good-for-nothing  Charlie  Foss." 

Mr.  Dowson  shook  his  head.  "He's  so  good- 
looking,  is  Charlie,"  he  said,  slowly;  "that's  the 
worst  of  it.  Wot  with  'is  dark  eyes  and  his  curly 
'air " 

"Go  on!"  said  his  wife,  passionately,  "go  on!" 

Mr.  Dowson,  dimly  conscious  that  something  was 
wrong,  stopped  and  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe.  Through 
the  cover  of  the  smoke  he  bestowed  a  sympathetic 
wink  upon  his  daughter. 

"You  needn't  go  on  too  fast,"  said  the  latter,  turn- 
100 


;'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

ing  to  her  mother.  "  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet. 
Charlie's  looks  are  all  right,  but  he  ain't  over  and 
above  steady,  and  Ben  is  steady,  but  he  ain't  much 
to  look  at." 

"What  does  your  'art  say?"  inquired  the  senti- 
mental Mr.  Dowson. 

Neither  lady  took  the  slightest  notice. 

"Charlie  Foss  is  too  larky,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson, 
solemnly;  "it's  easy  come  and  easy  go  with  'im. 
He's  just  such  another  as  your  father's  cousin  Bill — 
and  look  what  'appened  to  him!" 

Miss  Dowson  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  subsid- 
ing in  her  chair,  went  on  with  her  book,  until  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door  and  a  cheerful,  but  peculiarly 
shrill,  whistle  sounded  outside. 

"There  is  my  lord,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dowson, 
waspishly;  "anybody  might  think  the  'ouse  belonged 
to  him.  And  now  he's  dancing  on  my  clean  door- 
step." 

"Might  be  only  knocking  the  mud  off  afore  coming 
in,"  said  Mr.  Dowson,  as  he  rose  to  open  the  door. 
"I've  noticed  he's  very  careful." 

"I  just  came  in  to  tell  you  a  joke,"  said  Mr.  Foss, 
as  he  followed  his  host  into  the  kitchen  and  gazed 
tenderly  at  Miss  Dowson — "best  joke  I  ever  had  in 
my  life;  I've  'ad  my  fortune  told — guess  what  it  was! 
I've  been  laughing  to  myself  ever  since." 

101 


11  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"Who  told  it?"  inquired  Mrs.  Dowson,  after  a 
somewhat  awkward  silence. 

"Old  gypsy  woman  in  Peter  Street,"  replied  Mr. 
Foss.  "I  gave  'er  a  wrong  name  and  address,  just 
in  case  she  might  ha'  heard  about  me,  and  she  did 
make  a  mess  of  it;  upon  my  word  she  did." 

"Wot  did  she  say  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Dowson. 

Mr.  Foss  laughed.  "Said  I  was  a  wrong  'un,"  he 
said,  cheerfully,  "and  would  bring  my  mother's  gray 
hairs  to  the  grave  with  sorrow.  I'm  to  'ave  bad 
companions  and  take  to  drink;  I'm  to  steal  money 
to  gamble  with,  and  after  all  that  I'm  to  'ave  five 
years  for  bigamy.  I  told  her  I  was  disappointed  I 
wasn't  to  be  hung,  and  she  said  it  would  be  a  disap- 
pointment to  a  lot  of  other  people  too.  Laugh! 
I  thought  I  should  'ave  killed  myself." 

"I  don't  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  said  Mrs.  Dow- 
son, coldly. 

"I  shouldn't  tell  anybody  else,  Charlie,"  said  her 
husband.  "  Keep  it  a  secret,  my  boy." 

"But  you — you  don't  believe  it?"  stammered  the 
crestfallen  Mr.  Foss. 

Mrs.  Dowson  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  her  daugh- 
ter. "  It's  wonderful  'ow  some  o*  those  fortune-tellers 
can  see  into  the  future,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

"Ah!"  said  her  husband,  with  a  confirmatory  nod. 
"  Wonderful  is  no  name  for  it.  I  'ad  my  fortune  told 

102 


''  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

once  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  told  me  I  should 
marry  the  prettiest,  and  the  nicest,  and  the  sweetest- 
tempered  gal  in  Poplar." 


"  I  just  came  in  to  tell  you  a  joke.' 

Mr.  Foss,  with  a  triumphant  smile,  barely  waited 
for  him  to  finish.  "There  you — "  he  began,  and 
stopped  suddenly. 

103 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"What  was  you  about  to  remark  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Dowson,  icily. 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  replied  Mr.  Foss — "I  was 
going  to  say — I  'ad  just  got  it  on  the  tip  o'  my  tongue 
to  say,  'There  you — you — you  'ad  all  the  luck,  Mr. 
Dowson.'" 

He  edged  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  Flora;  but 
there  was  a  chilliness  in  the  atmosphere  against 
which  his  high  spirits  strove  in  vain.  Mr.  Dowson 
remembered  other  predictions  which  had  come  true, 
notably  the  case  of  one  man  who,  learning  that  he 
was  to  come  in  for  a  legacy,  gave  up  a  two-pound-a- 
week  job,  and  did  actually  come  in  for  twenty  pounds 
and  a  bird-cage  seven  years  afterwards. 

"It's  all  nonsense,"  protested  Mr.  Foss;  "she  only 
said  all  that  because  I  made  fun  of  her.  You  don't 
believe  it,  do  you,  Flora  ?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,"  returned  Miss 
Dowson.  "  Fancy  five  years  for  bigamy!  Fancy  the 
disgrace  of  it!" 

"But  you're  talking  as  if  I  was  going  to  do  it," 
objected  Mr.  Foss.  "  I  wish  you'd  go  and  'ave  your 
fortune  told.  Go  and  see  what  she  says  about  you. 
P'r'aps  you  won't  believe  so  much  in  fortune-telling 
afterwards." 

Mrs.  Dowson  looked  up  quickly,  and  then,  lower- 
ing her  eyes,  took  her  hand  out  of  the  stocking  she 

104 


!<  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

had  been  darning  and,  placing  it  beside  its  compan- 
ion, rolled  the  pair  into  a  ball. 


He  edged  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  Flora. 

''You  go  round  to-morrow  night,  Flora,"  she  said, 
deliberately.     "It  sha'n't  be  said  a  daughter  of  mine 

105 


i 


Matrimonial    Openings  " 


was  afraid  to  hear  the  truth  about  herself;  father'll 
find  the  money." 

"And  she  can  say  what  she  likes  about  you,  but  I 
sha'n't  believe  it,"  said  Mr.  Foss,  reproachfully. 

"I  don't  suppose  it'll  be  anything  to  be  ashamed 
of,"  said  Miss  Dowson,  sharply. 

Mr.  Foss  bade  them  good-night  suddenly,  and, 
finding  himself  accompanied  to  the  door  by  Mr. 
Dowson,  gave  way  to  gloom.  He  stood  for  so  long 
with  one  foot  on  the  step  and  the  other  on  the  mat 
that  Mr.  Dowson,  who  disliked  draughts,  got  im- 
patient. 

"You'll  catch  cold,  Charlie,"  he  said  at  last. 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  do,"  said  Mr.  Foss; 
"  my  death  o'  cold.  Then  I  sha'n't  get  five  years  for 
bigamy,"  he  added  bitterly. 

"Cheer  up,"  said  Mr.  Dowson;  "five  years  ain't 
much  out  of  a  lifetime;  and  you  can't  expect  to  'ave 
your  fun  without — 

He  watched  the  retreating  figure  of  Mr.  Foss  as  it 
stamped  its  way  down  the  street,  and  closing  the  door 
returned  to  the  kitchen  to  discuss  palmistry  and 
other  sciences  until  bedtime. 

Mrs.  Dowson  saw  husband  and  daughter  off  to 
work  in  the  morning,  and  after  washing  up  the 
breakfast  things  drew  her  chair  up  to  the  kitchen  fire 
and  became  absorbed  in  memories  of  the  past.  All 

106 


''  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

the   leading  incidents   in   Flora's   career   passed   in 
review  before  her.    Measles,  whooping-cough,  school 


Mr.  Foss  bade  them  good-night  suddenly. 

prizes,  and  other  things  peculiar  to  the  age  of  inno- 
cence were  all  there.     In  her  enthusiasm  she  nearly 

107 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

gave  her  a  sprained  ankle  which  had  belonged  to  her 
sister.  Still  shaking  her  head  over  her  mistake,  she 
drew  Flora's  latest  portrait  carefully  from  its  place 
in  the  album,  and  putting  on  her  hat  and  jacket  went 
round  to  make  a  call  in  Peter  Street. 

By  the  time  Flora  returned  home  Mrs.  Dowson 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  the  arrangement  made 
the  night  before,  and,  being  reminded  by  her  daugh- 
ter, questioned  whether  any  good  could  come  of 
attempts  to  peer  into  the  future.  Mr.  Dowson  was 
still  more  emphatic,  but  his  objections,  being  recog- 
nized by  both  ladies  as  trouser-pocket  ones,  carried 
no  weight.  It  ended  in  Flora  going  off  with  half  a 
crown  in  her  glove  and  an  urgent  request  from  her 
father  to  make  it  as  difficult  as  possible  for  the  sibyl 
by  giving  a  false  name  and  address. 

No  name  was  asked  for,  however,  as  Miss  Dowson 
was  shown  into  the  untidy  little  back  room  on  the 
first  floor,  in  which  the  sorceress  ate,  slept,  and 
received  visitors.  She  rose  from  an  old  rocking- 
chair  as  the  visitor  entered,  and,  regarding  her  with 
a  pair  of  beady  black  eyes,  bade  her  sit  down. 

"Are  you  the  fortune-teller?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"Men  call  me  so,"  was  the  reply. 

"Yes,  but  are  you  ?"  persisted  Miss  Dowson,  who 
inherited  her  father's  fondness  for  half  crowns. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  in  a  more  natural  voice. 
108 


;<  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

She  took  the  girl's  left  hand,  and  pouring  a  little 
dark  liquid  into  the  palm  gazed  at  it  intently.     "Left 


She  muttered  some  strange  words  and  bent  her  head  lower 
over  the  girl's  hand. 

for  the  past;  right  for  the  future,"  she  said,  in  a  deep 
voice. 

She  muttered  some  strange  words  and  bent  her 
head  lower  over  the  girl's  hand. 

109 


* 


Matrimonial   Openings 


"I  see  a  fair-haired  infant,"  she  said,  slowly;  "I 
see  a  little  girl  of  four  racked  with  the  whooping- 
cough;  I  see  her  later,  eight  she  appears  to  be.  She 
is  in  bed  with  measles." 

Miss  Dowson  stared  at  her  open-mouthed. 

"She  goes  away  to  the  seaside  to  get  strong,"  con- 
tinued the  sorceress;  "she  is  paddling;  she  falls  into 
the  water  and  spoils  her  frock;  her  mother— 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  interrupted  the  staring 
Miss  Dowson,  hastily.  "I  was  only  eight  at  the  time 
and  mother  always  was  ready  with  her  hands." 

"People  on  the  beach  smile,"  resumed  the  other. 
"They- 

"It  don't  take  much  to  make  some  people  laugh," 
said  Miss  Dowson,  with  bitterness. 

"At  fourteen  she  and  a  boy  next  door  but  seven 
both  have  the  mumps." 

"And  why  not?"  demanded  Miss  Dowson  with 
great  warmth.  "Why  not?" 

"I'm  only  reading  what  I  see  in  your  hand,"  said 
the  other.  "At  fifteen  I  see  her  knocked  down 
by  a  boat-swing;  a  boy  from  opposite  brings  her 
home." 

"Passing  at  the  time,"  murmured  Miss  Dowson. 

"His  head  is  done  up  with  sticking-plaster.  I  see 
her  apprenticed  to  a  dressmaker.  I  see  her— 

The  voice  went  on  monotonously,  and  Flora,  gasp- 

no 


"  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

ing  with  astonishment,  listened  to  a  long  recital  of  the 
remaining  interesting  points  in  her  career. 

"That  brings  us  to  the  present,"  said  the  sooth- 
sayer, dropping  her  hand.  "Now  for  the  future." 

She  took  the  girl's  other  hand  and  poured  some  of 
the  liquid  into  it.  Miss  Dowson  shrank  back. 

"If  it's  anything  dreadful,"  she  said,  quickly,  "I 
don't  want  to  hear  it.  It — it  ain't  natural." 

"I  can  warn  you  of  dangers  to  keep  clear  of," 
said  the  other,  detaining  her  hand.  "  I  can  let  you 
peep  into  the  future  and  see  what  to  do  and  what  to 
avoid.  Ah!" 

She  bent  over  the  girl's  hand  again  and  uttered 
little  ejaculations  of  surprise  and  perplexity. 

"I  see  you  moving  in  gay  scenes  surrounded  by 
happy  faces,"  she  said,  slowly.  "You  are  much 
sought  after.  Handsome  presents  and  fine  clothes 
are  showered  upon  you.  You  will  cross  the  sea.  I 
see  a  dark  young  man  and  a  fair  young  man.  They 
will  both  influence  your  life.  The  fair  young  man 
works  in  his  father's  shop.  He  will  have  great  riches." 

"What  about  the  other?"  inquired  Miss  Dowson, 
after  a  somewhat  lengthy  pause. 

The  fortune-teller  shook  her  head.  "He  is  his 
own  worst  enemy,"  she  said,  "and  he  will  drag  down 
those  he  loves  with  him.  You  are  going  to  marry 
one  of  them,  but  I  can't  see  clear— I  can't  see  which." 

in 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"Look  again,"  said  the  trembling  Flora. 

"I  can't  see,"  was  the  reply,  "therefore  it  isn't 
meant  for  me  to  see.  It's  for  you  to  choose.  I  can 
see  them  now  as  plain  as  I  can  see  you.  You  are 
all  three  standing  where  two  roads  meet.  The  fair 
young  man  is  beckoning  to  you  and  pointing  to  a 
big  house  and  a  motor-car  and  a  yacht." 

"And  the  other  ?"  said  the  surprised  Miss  Dowson. 

"He's  in  knickerbockers,"  said  the  other,  doubt- 
fully. "What  does  that  mean  ?  Ah,  I  see!  They've 
got  the  broad  arrow  on  them,  and  he  is  pointing  to  a 
jail.  It's  all  gone — I  can  see  no  more." 

She  dropped  the  girl's  hand  and,  drawing  her  hand 
across  her  eyes,  sank  back  into  her  chair.  Miss 
Dowson,  with  trembling  fingers,  dropped  the  half 
crown  into  her  lap,  and,  with  her  head  in  a  whirl, 
made  her  way  downstairs. 

After  such  marvels  the  streets  seemed  oddly  com- 
monplace as  she  walked  swiftly  home.  She  decided 
as  she  went  to  keep  her  knowledge  to  herself,  but 
inclination  on  the  one  hand  and  Mrs.  Dowson  on  the 
other  got  the  better  of  her  resolution.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  things  in  her  past,  already  known 
and  therefore  not  worth  dwelling  upon,  the  whole 
of  the  interview  was  disclosed. 

"It  fair  takes  your  breath  away,"  declared  the 
astounded  Mr.  Dowson. 

112 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"The  fair  young  man  is  meant  for  Ben  Lippet," 
said  his  wife,  "  and  the  dark  one  is  Charlie  Foss.  It 
must  be.  It's  no  use  shutting  your  eyes  to  things." 

"It's  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,"  agreed  her  husband. 
"And  she  told  Charlie  five  years  for  bigamy,  and 
when  she's  telling  Flora's  fortune  she  sees  'im  in 
convict's  clothes.  How  she  does  it  I  can't  think." 

"It's  a  gift,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  briefly,  "and  I  do 
hope  that  Flora  is  going  to  act  sensible.  Anyhow, 
she  can  let  Ben  Lippet  come  and  see  her,  without 
going  upstairs  with  the  tooth-ache." 

"He  can  come  if  he  likes,"  said  Flora;  "though 
why  Charlie  couldn't  have  'ad  the  motor-car  and  'im 
the  five  years,  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Lippet  came  in  the  next  evening,  and  the 
evening  after.  In  fact,  so  easy  is  it  to  fall  into  habits 
of  an  agreeable  nature  that  nearly  every  evening  saw 
him  the  happy  guest  of  Mr.  Dowson.  A  spirit  of 
resignation,  fostered  by  a  present  or  two  and  a  visit 
to  the  theatre,  descended  upon  Miss  Dowson.  Fate 
and  her  mother  combined  were  in  a  fair  way  to  over- 
come her  inclinations,  when  Mr.  Foss,  who  had  been 
out  of  town  on  a  job,  came  in  to  hear  the  result  of  her 
visit  to  the  fortune-teller,  and  found  Mr.  Lippet 
installed  in  the  seat  that  used  to  be  his. 

At  first  Mrs.  Dowson  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his 
request  for  information,  and  it  was  only  when  his 


. . 


Matrimonial   Openings  " 


jocularity  on  the  subject  passed  the  bounds  of  endur- 
ance that  she  consented  to  gratify  his  curiosity. 

"I  didn't  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
finished,  "  but  you  asked  for  it,  and  now  you've  got  it." 

"It's  very  amusing,"  said  Mr.  Foss.  "I  wonder 
who  the  dark  young  man  in  the  fancy  knickers  is  ?" 

"Ah,  I  daresay  you'll  know  some  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Dowson. 

"Was  the  fair  young  man  a  good-looking  chap  ?" 
inquired  the  inquisitive  Mr.  Foss. 

Mrs.  Dowson  hesitated.  "Yes,"  she  said,  de- 
fiantly. 

"Wonder  who  it  can  be?"  muttered  Mr.  Foss,  in 
perplexity. 

"You'll  know  that  too  some  day,  no  doubt,"  was 
the  reply. 

Mr.  Foss  assented. 

"I'm  glad  it's  to  be  a  good-looking  chap,"  he  said; 
"not  that  I  think  Flora  believes  in  such  rubbish 
as  fortune-telling.  She's  too  sensible." 

"I  do,"  said  Flora.  "How  should  she  know  all 
the  things  I  did  when  I  was  a  little  girl  ?  Tell  me 
that." 

"  I  believe  in  it,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson.  "  P'r'aps 
you'll  tell  me  I'm  not  sensible!" 

Mr.  Foss  quailed  at  the  challenge  and  relapsed 
into  moody  silence.  The  talk  turned  on  an  aunt  of 

114 


Matrimonial  Openings 


" 


Mr.  Lippet's,  rumored  to  possess  money,  and  an 
uncle  who  was  "rolling"  in  it.  He  began  to  feel  in 
the  way,  and  only  his  native  obstinacy  prevented  him 
from  going. 

It  was  a  relief  to  him  when  the  front  door  opened 
and  the  heavy  step  of  Mr.  Dowson  was  heard  in  the 
tiny  passage.  If  anything  it  seemed  heavier  than 
usual,  and  Mr.  Dowson's  manner  when  he  entered 
the  room  and  greeted  his  guests  was  singularly  lacking 
in  its  usual  cheerfulness.  He  drew  a  chair  to  the 
fire,  and  putting  his  feet  on  the  fender  gazed  moodily 
between  the  bars. 

"I've  been  wondering  as  I  came  along,"  he  said  at 
last,  with  an  obvious  attempt  to  speak  carelessly, 
"whether  this  'ere  fortune-telling  as  we've  been 
hearing  so  much  about  lately  always  comes  out  true." 

"It  depends  on  the  fortune-teller,"  said  his  wife. 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Dowson,  slowly  —  "I  mean  that 
gypsy  woman  that  Charlie  and  Flora  went  to." 

"Of  course  it  does,"  snapped  his  wife.  "I'd 
trust  what  she  says  afore  anything." 

"I  know  five  or  six  that  she  has  told,"  said  Mr. 
Lippet,  plucking  up  courage;  "and  they  all  believe 
'er.  They  couldn't  help  themselves;  they  said  so." 

"Still,  she  might  make  a  mistake  sometimes,"  said 
Mr.  Dowson,  faintly.  "Might  get  mixed  up,  so  to 
speak." 


*  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"Never!"  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  firmly. 

"Never!"  echoed  Flora  and  Mr.  Lippet. 

Mr.  Dowson  heaved  a  big  sigh,  and  his  eye  wan- 
dered round  the  room.  It  lighted  on  Mr.  Foss. 

"She's  an  old  humbug,"  said  that  gentleman. 
"I've  a  good  mind  to  put  the  police  on  to  her." 

Mr.  Dowson  reached  over  and  gripped  his  hand. 
Then  he  sighed  again. 

"Of  course,  it  suits  Charlie  Foss  to  say  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Dowson;  "naturally  he'd  say  so;  he's  got 
reasons.  I  believe  every  word  she  says.  If  she  told 
me  I  was  coming  in  for  a  fortune  I  should  believe 
her;  and  if  she  told  me  I  was  going  to  have  misfort- 
unes I  should  believe  her." 

"Don't  say  that,"  shouted  Mr.  Dowson,  with 
startling  energy.  "  Don't  say  that.  That's  what  she 
did  say!" 

"What  ?"  cried  his  wife,  sharply.  "What  are  you 
talking  about?" 

"I  won  eighteenpence  off  of  Bob  Stevens,"  said 
her  husband,  staring  at  the  table.  "Eighteenpence 
is  'er  price  for  telling  the  future  only,  and,  being 
curious  and  feeling  I'd  like  to  know  what's  going 
to  'appen  to  me,  I  went  in  and  had  eighteen  pen- 
north." 

"Well,  you're  upset,"  said  Mrs.  Dowson,  with  a 
quick  glance  at  him.  "You  get  upstairs  to  bed." 

116 


"  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"I'd  sooner  stay  'ere,"  said  her  husband,  resuming 
his  seat;  "it  seems  more  cheerful  and  lifelike.  I 
wish  I  'adn't  gorn,  that's  what  I  wish." 

"What  did  she  tell  you  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Foss. 

Mr.  Dowson  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trouser 
pockets  and  spoke  desperately.  "She  says  I'm  to 
live  to  ninety,  and  I'm  to  travel  to  foreign  parts " 

"You  get  to  bed,"  said  his  wife.     "Come  along." 

Mr.  Dowson  shook  his  head  doggedly.  "I'm  to 
be  rich,"  he  continued,  slowly — "rich  and  loved. 
After  my  pore  dear  wife's  death  I'm  to  marry  again; 
a  young  woman  with  money  and  stormy  brown 
eyes." 

Mrs.  Dowson  sprang  from  her  chair  and  stood 
over  him  quivering  with  passion.  "How  dare  you  ?" 
she  gasped.  "You — you've  been  drinking." 

"I've  'ad  two  arf-pints,"  said  her  husband,  sol- 
emnly. "I  shouldn't  'ave  'ad  the  second  only  I  felt 
so  miserable.  I  know  I  sha'n't  be  'appy  with  a 
young  woman." 

Mrs.  Dowson,  past  speech,  sank  back  in  her  chair 
and  stared  at  him. 

"I  shouldn't  worry  about  it  if  I  was  you,  Mrs. 
Dowson,"  said  Mr.  Foss,  kindly.  "Look  what  she 
said  about  me.  That  ought  to  show  you  she  ain't 
to  be  relied  on." 

"Eyes  like  lamps,"  said  Mr.  Dowson,  musingly, 
117 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

"and  I'm  forty-nine  next  month.     Well,  they  do  say 
every  eye  'as  its  own  idea  of  beauty." 

A  strange  sound,  half  laugh  and  half  cry,  broke 
from  the  lips  of  the  over-wrought  Mrs.  Dowson. 
She  controlled  herself  by  an  effort. 

"If  she  said  it,"  she  said,  doggedly,  with  a  fierce 
glance  at  Mr.  Foss,  "it'll  come  true.  If,  after  my 
death,  my  'usband  is  going  to  marry  a  young  woman 
with — with— 

"  Stormy  brown  eyes,"  interjected  Mr.  Foss,  softly. 

"It's  his  fate  and  it  can't  be  avoided,"  concluded 
Mrs.  Dowson. 

"  But  it's  so  soon,"  said  the  unfortunate  husband. 
"You're  to  die  in  three  weeks  and  I'm  to  be  married 
three  months  after." 

Mrs.  Dowson  moistened  her  lips  and  tried,  but 
in  vain,  to  avoid  the  glittering  eye  of  Mr.  Foss. 
"Three!"  she  said,  mechanically,  "three!  three 
weeks!" 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Mr.  Foss,  in  a  winning 
voice.  "I  don't  believe  it;  and,  besides,  we  shall 
soon  see!  And  if  you  don't  die  in  three  weeks, 
perhaps  I  sha'n't  get  five  years  for  bigamy,  and 
perhaps  Flora  won't  marry  a  fair  man  with  millions 
of  money  and  motor-cars." 

"No;  perhaps  she  is  wrong  after  all,  mother," 
said  Mr.  Dowson,  hopefully. 

118 


'  Matrimonial   Openings  " 

Mrs.  Dowson  gave  him  a  singularly  unkind  look 
for  one  about  to  leave  him  so  soon,  and,  afraid  to 
trust  herself  to  speech,  left  the  room  and  went  up- 
stairs. As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Mr.  Foss  took 
the  chair  which  Mr.  Lippet  had  thoughtlessly  vacated, 
and  offered  such  consolations  to  Flora  as  he  consid- 
ered suitable  to  the  occasion. 


119 


ODD   MAN   OUT 


Friendship,  he  said,  decidedly,  is  a  deloosion  and  a  snare. 


123 


Odd  Man  Out 

THE  night  watchman  pursed  up  his  lips  and 
shook  his  head.  Friendship,  he  said,  de- 
cidedly, is  a  deloosion  and  a  snare.  I've 
'ad  more  friendships  in  my  life  than  most  people — 
owing  to  being  took  a  fancy  to  for  some  reason  or 
other — and  they  nearly  all  came  to  a  sudden  ending. 

I  remember  one  man  who  used  to  think  I  couldn't 
do  wrong;  everything  I  did  was  right  to  'im;  and 
now  if  I  pass  'im  in  the  street  he  makes  a  face  as  if 
he'd  got  a  hair  in  'is  mouth.  All  because  I  told  'im 
the  truth  one  day  when  he  was  thinking  of  getting 
married.  Being  a  bit  uneasy-like  in  his  mind,  he 
asked  me  'ow,  supposing  I  was  a  gal,  his  looks  would 
strike  me. 

It  was  an  orkard  question,  and  I  told  him  that  he 
'ad  got  a  good  'art  and  that  no  man  could  'ave  a 
better  pal.  I  said  he  'ad  got  a  good  temper  and  was 
free  with  'is  money.  O'  course,  that  didn't  satisfy 
'im,  and  at  last  he  told  me  to  take  a  good  look  at  'im 
and  tell  him  wot  I  thought  of  'is  looks.  There  was 
no  getting  out  of  it,  and  at  last  I  'ad  to  tell  him  plain 

123 


Odd  Man  Out 

that  everybody  'ad  difFrent  ideas  about  looks;  that 
looks  wasn't  everything;  and  that  'andsome  is  as 
'andsome  does.  Even  then  'e  wasn't  satisfied,  and  at 
last  I  told  'im,  speaking  as  a  pal  to  a  pal,  that  if  I 
was  a  gal  and  he  came  along  trying  to  court  me,  I 
should  go  to  the  police  about  it. 

I  remember  two  young  fellers  that  was  shipmates 
with  me  some  years  ago,  and  they  was  such  out-and- 
out  pals  that  everybody  called  'em  the  Siamese  twins. 
They  always  shipped  together  and  shared  lodgings 
together  when  they  was  ashore,  and. Ted  Denver 
would  no  more  'ave  thought  of  going  out  without 
Charlie  Brice  than  Charlie  Brice  would  'ave  thought 
of  going  out  without  'im.  They  shared  their  baccy 
and  their  money  and  everything  else,  and  it's  my 
opinion  that  if  they  'ad  only  'ad  one  pair  o'  boots 
between  'em  they'd  'ave  hopped  along  in  one  each. 

They  'ad  been  like  it  for  years,  and  they  kept  it 
up  when  they  left  the  sea  and  got  berths  ashore. 
Anybody  knowing  them  would  ha'  thought  that 
nothing  but  death  could  part  'em;  but  it  happened 
otherwise. 

There  was  a  gal  in  it,  of  course.  A  gal  that  Ted 
Denver  got  into  conversation  with  on  top  of  a  bus, 
owing  to  her  steadying  'erself  by  putting  her  hand  on 
'is  shoulder  as  she  passed  'im.  Bright,  lively  sort  o' 
gal  she  seemed,  and,  afore  Ted  knew  where  he  was, 

124 


Odd  Man  Out 

they  was  talking  away  as  though  they  'ad  known 
each  other  for  years. 

Charlie  didn't  seem  to  care  much  for  it  at  fust,  but 
he  didn't  raise  no  objection;  and  when  the  gal  got  up 
to  go  he  stopped  the  bus  for  'er  by  poking  the  driver 
in  the  back,  and  they  all  got  off  together.  Ted  went 
fust  to  break  her  fall,  in  case  the  bus  started  off  too 
sudden,  and  Charlie  'elped  her  down  behind  by 
catching  hold  of  a  lace  collar  she  was  wearing. 
When  she  turned  to  speak  to  'im  about  it,  she  knocked 
the  conductor's  hat  off  with  'er  umbrella,  and  there 
was  so  much  unpleasantness  that  by  the  time  they 
'ad  got  to  the  pavement  she  told  Charlie  that  she 
never  wanted  to  see  his  silly  fat  face  agin. 

"It  ain't  fat,"  ses  Ted,  speaking  up  for  'im;  "it's 
the  shape  of  it." 

"And  it  ain't  silly,"  ses  Charlie,  speaking  very 
quick;  "mind  that!" 

"It's  a  bit  o'  real  lace,"  ses  the  gal,  twisting  her 
'ead  round  to  look  at  the  collar;  "it  cost  me  one 
and  two-three  only  last  night." 

"One  an'  wot?"  ses  Charlie,  who,  not  being  a 
married  man,  didn't  understand  'er. 

"One  shilling,"  ses  the  gal,  "two  pennies,  and  three 
farthings.  D'ye  understand  that?" 

"Yes,"  ses  Charlie. 

"  He's  cleverer  than  he  looks,"  ses  the  gal,  turning 
125 


Odd   Man   Out 

to  Ted.  "  I  s'pose  you're  right,  and  it  is  the  shape 
after  all." 

Ted  walked  along  one  side  of  'er  and  Charlie  the 
other,  till  they  came  to  the  corner  of  the  road  where 
she  lived,  and  then  Ted  and  'er  stood  there  talking 
till  Charlie  got  sick  and  tired  of  it,  and  kept  tugging 
at  Ted's  coat  for  'im  to  come  away. 

"I'm  coming,"  ses  Ted,  at  last.  "I  s'pose  you 
won't  be  this  way  to-morrow  night  ?"  he  ses,  turning 
to  the  gal. 

"  I  might  if  I  thought  there  was  no  chance  of  seeing 
you,"  she  ses,  tossing  her  'ead. 

"You  needn't  be  alarmed,"  ses  Charlie,  shoving  in 
his  oar;  "we're  going  to  a  music-'all  to-morrow  night." 

"Oh,  go  to  your  blessed  music-'all,"  ses  the  gal  to 
Ted;  "I  don't  want  you." 

She  turned  round  and  a'most  ran  up  the  road,  with 
Ted  follering  'er  and  begging  of  'er  not  to  be  so  hasty, 
and  afore  they  parted  she  told  'im  that  'er  name  was 
Emma  White,  and  promised  to  meet  'im  there  the 
next  night  at  seven. 

O'  course  Mr.  Charlie  Brice  turned  up  alongside 
o*  Ted  the  next  night,  and  at  fust  Emma  said  she  was 
going  straight  off  'ome  agin.  She  did  go  part  o'  the 
way,  and  then,  when  she  found  that  Ted  wouldn't 
send  his  mate  off,  she  came  back  and,  woman-like, 
said  as  'ow  she  wasn't  going  to  go  'ome  just  to  please 

126 


Odd   Man  Out 

Charlie  Brice.  She  wouldn't  speak  a  word  to  'im, 
and  when  they  all  went  to  the  music-'all  together  she 
sat  with  her  face  turned  away  from  'im  and  her  elbow 
sticking  in  'is  chest.  Doing  that  and  watching  the 
performance  at  the  same  time  gave  'er  a  stiff  neck, 
and  she  got  in  such  a  temper  over  it  she  wouldn't 
hardly  speak  to  Ted,  and  when  Charlie — meaning 
well — told  'er  to  rub  it  with  a  bit  o'  mutton-fat  she 
nearly  went  off  her  'ead. 

"Who  asked  you  to  come  with  us?"  she  ses,  as 
soon  as  she  could  speak.  "  'Ow  dare  you  force  your- 
self where  you  ain't  wanted  ?" 

"Ted  wants  me,"  ses  Charlie. 

"We've  been  together  for  years,"  ses  Ted.  "You'll 
like  Charlie  when  you  get  used  to  'im — everybody 
does." 

"Not  me!"  ses  Emma,  with  a  shiver.  "It  gives 
me  the  fair  creeps  to  look  at  him.  You'll  'ave  to 
choose  between  us.  If  he  comes,  I  sha'n't.  Which 
is  it  to  be?" 

Neither  of  'em  answered  'er,  but  the  next  night  they 
both  turned  up  as  usual,  and  Emma  White  stood  there 
looking  at  'em  and  nearly  crying  with  temper. 

"  'Ow  would  you  like  it  if  I  brought  another  young 
lady  with  me  ?"  she  ses  to  Ted. 

"  It  wouldn't  make  no  difference  to  me,"  ses  Ted. 
"Any  friend  o'  yours  is  welcome." 

127 


Odd   Man  Out 

Emma  stood  looking  at  'em,  and  then  she  patted 
'er  eyes  with  a  pocket-'ankercher  and  began  to  look 
more  cheerful. 

"You  ain't  the  only  one  that  has  got  a  dear  friend," 
she  says,  looking  at  'im  and  wiping  'er  lips  with  the 
'ankercher.  "  I've  got  one,  and  if  Charlie  Brice  don't 
promise  to  stay  at  'ome  to-morrow  night  I'll  bring  her 
with  me." 

"  Bring  'er,  and  welcome,"  ses  Ted. 

"I  sha'n't  stay  at  'ome  for  fifty  dear  friends,"  ses 
Charlie. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  ses  Emma.  "If  you 
come,  Sophy  Jennings  comes,  that's  all." 

She  was  as  good  as  'er  word,  too,  and  next  night 
when  they  turned  up  they  found  Emma  and  'er 
friend  waiting  for  them.  Charlie  thought  it  was  the 
friend's  mother  at  fust,  but  he  found  out  arterwards 
that  she  was  a  widder-woman.  She  had  'ad  two 
husbands,  and  both  of  'em  'ad  passed  away  with  a 
smile  on  their  face.  She  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to 
Charlie  the  moment  she  set  eyes  on  'im,  and  two  or 
three  times,  they'd  'ave  lost  Ted  and  Emma  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  'im. 

They  did  lose  'em  the  next  night,  and  Charlie 
Brice  'ad  Mrs.  Jennings  all  alone  to  himself  for  over 
a  couple  of  hours  walking  up  and  down  the  Com- 
mercial Road  talking  about  the  weather;  Charles 

128 


I29 


Odd   Man  Out 

saying  'ow  wet  and  cold  it  was,  and  thinking  pVaps 
they  'ad  better  go  off  'ome  afore  she  got  a  chill. 

He  complained  to  Ted  about  it  when  'e  got  'ome, 
and  Ted  promised  as  it  shouldn't  'appen  agin.  He 
said  that  'im  and  Emma  'ad  been  so  busy  talking 
about  getting  married  that  he  'ad  forgotten  to  keep 
an  eye  on  him. 

"Married!"  ses  Charlie,  very  upset.  "Married! 
And  wot's  to  become  o'  me  ?" 

"Come  and  lodge  with  us,"  ses  Ted. 

They  shook  hands  on  it,  but  Ted  said  they  'ad 
both  better  keep  it  to  themselves  a  bit  and  wait  until 
Emma  *ad  got  more  used  to  Charlie  afore  they  told 
her.  Ted  let  'er  get  used  to  'im  for  three  days  more 
afore  he  broke  the  news  to  'er,  and  the  way  she  went 
on  was  alarming.  She  went  on  for  over  ten  minutes 
without  taking  breath,  and  she  was  just  going  to  start 
again  when  Mrs.  Jennings  stopped  her. 

"He's  all  right,"  she  ses.     "You  leave  'im  alone." 

"I'm  not  touching  'im,"  ses  Emma,  very  scornful. 

"You  leave  'im  alone,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  taking 
hold  of  Charlie's  arm.  "I  don't  say  things  about 
your  young  man." 

Charlie  Brice  started  as  if  he  'ad  been  shot,  and 
twice  he  opened  'is  mouth  to  speak  and  show  Mrs. 
Jennings  'er  mistake;  but,  wot  with  trying  to  find 
'is  voice  in  the  fust  place,  and  then  finding  words  to 

130 


Odd   Man  Out 

use  it  with  in  the  second,  he  didn't  say  anything.  He 
just  walked  along  gasping,  with  'is  mouth  open  like 
a  fish. 

"Don't  take  no  notice  of  'er,  Charlie,"  ses  Mrs. 
Jennings. 

"I — I  don't  mind  wot  she  ses,"  ses  pore  Charlie; 
"but  you're  making  a  great " 

"She's  quick-tempered,  is  Emma,"  ses  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings. "But,  there,  so  am  I.  Wot  you  might  call 
a  generous  temper,  but  quick." 

Charlie  went  cold  all  over. 

"Treat  me  well  and  I  treat  other  people  well," 
ses  Mrs.  Jennings.  "I  can't  say  fairer  than  that, 
can  I?" 

Charlie  said  "Nobody  could,"  and  then  'e  walked 
along  with  her  hanging  on  to  'is  arm,  arf  wondering 
whether  it  would  be  wrong  to  shove  'er  under  a  bus 
that  was  passing,  and  arf  wondering  whether  'e 
could  do  it  if  it  wasn't. 

"As  for  Emma  saying  she  won't  'ave  you  for  a 
lodger,"'  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  "let  'er  wait  till  she's 
asked.  She'll  wait  a  long  time  if  I  'ave  my  say." 

Charlie  didn't  answer  her.  He  walked  along  with 
'is  mouth  shut,  his  idea  being  that  the  least  said  the 
soonest  mended.  Even  Emma  asked  'im  at  last 
whether  he  'ad  lost  'is  tongue,  and  said  it  was  curious 
'ow  different  love  took  different  people. 


Odd   Man  Out 

He  talked  fast  enough  going '  ome  with  Ted  though, 
and  pretty  near  lost  'is  temper  with  'im  when  Ted 
asked  'im  why  he  didn't  tell  Mrs.  Jennings  straight 
that  she  'ad  made  a  mistake. 

"She  knows  well  enough,"  he  says,  grinding  'is 
teeth;  "she  was  just  trying  it  on.  That's  'ow  it  is 
widders  get  married  agin.  You'll  'ave  to  choose 
between  going  out  with  me  or  Emma,  Ted.  I  can't 
face  Mrs.  Jennings  again.  I  didn't  think  anybody 
could  'ave  parted  us  like  that." 

Ted  said  it  was  all  nonsense,  but  it  was  no  good, 
and  the  next  night  he  went  off  alone  and  came  back 
very  cross,  saying  that  Mrs.  Jennings  'ad  been  with 
'em  all  the  time,  and  when  'e  spoke  to  Emma  about 
it  she  said  it  was  just  tit  for  tat,  and  reminded  'im 
'ow  she  had  'ad  to  put  up  with  Charlie.  For  four 
nights  running  'e  went  out  for  walks,  with  Emma 
holding  one  of  'is  arms  and  Mrs.  Jennings  the  other. 

"It's  miserable  for  you  all  alone  'ere  by  yourself, 
Charlie,"  he  ses.  "Why  not  come?  She  can't 
marry  you  against  your  will.  Besides,  I  miss  you." 

Charlie  shook  'ands  with  'im,  but  'e  said  'e 
wouldn't  walk  out  with  Mrs.  Jennings  for  a  fortune. 
And  all  that  Ted  could  say  made  no  difference.  He 
stayed  indoors  of  an  evening  Beading  the  paper,  or 
going  for  little  walks  by  'imself,  until  at  last  Ted 
came  'ome  one  evening,  smiling  all  over  his  face,  and 


Odd   Man  Out 

told  'im  they  had  both  been  making  fools  of  them- 
selves for  nothing. 

"Mrs.  Jennings  is  going  to  be  married,"  he  ses, 
clapping  Charlie  on  the  back. 

"Wot?"  ses  Charlie. 

Ted  nodded.  "Her  and  Emma  'ad  words  to- 
night," he  ses,  laughing,  "and  it  all  come  out.  She's 
been  keeping  company  for  some  time.  He's  away 
at  present,  and  they're  going  to  be  married  as  soon 
as  'e  comes  back." 

"Well,"  ses  Charlie,  "why  did  she " 

"To  oblige  Emma,"  ses  Ted,  "to  frighten  you  into 
staying  at  'ome.  I'd  'ad  my  suspicions  for  some 
time,  from  one  or  two  things  I  picked  up." 

"Ho!"  ses  Charlie.  "Well,  it'll  be  my  turn  to 
laugh  to-morrow  night.  We'll  see  whether  she  can 
shake  me  off  agin." 

Ted  looked  at  'im  a  bit  worried.  "It's  a  bit 
orkard,"  he  ses,  speaking  very  slow.  "You  see, 
they  made  it  up  arterwards,  and  then  they  both 
made  me  promise  not  to  tell  you,  and  if  you  come, 
they'll  know  I  'ave." 

Charlie  did  a  bit  o'  thinking.  "Not  if  I  pretend 
to  make  love  to  Mrs.  Jennings?"  he  ses,  at  last, 
winking  at  'im.  "And  it'll  serve  her  right  for  being 
deceitful.  We'll  see  'ow  she  likes  it.  Wot  sort  o' 
chap  is  the  young  man — big?" 

133 


Odd   Man  Out 

"Can't  be,"  ses  Ted;  "cos  Emma  called  'im  a 
little  shrimp." 

"I'll  come,"  ses  Charlie;  "and  it'll  be  your  own 
fault  if  they  find  out  you  told  me  about  it." 

They  fell  asleep  talking  of  it,  and  the  next  evening 
Charlie  put  on  a  new  neck-tie  he  'ad  bought,  and 
arter  letting  Ted  have  arf  an  hour's  start  went  out 
and  met  'em  accidental.  The  fust  Mrs.  Jennings 
knew  of  'is  being  there  was  by  finding  an  arm  put 
round  'er  waist. 

"Good-evening,  Sophy,"  he  ses. 

"'Ow — 'ow  dare  you  ?"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  giving 
a  scream  and  pushing  him  away. 

Charlie  looked  surprised. 

"Why,  ain't  you  pleased  to  see  me  ?"  he  ses.  "I've 
'ad  the  raging  toothache  for  over  a  week;  I've  got 
it  now  a  bit,  but  I  couldn't  stay  away  from  you  any 
longer." 

"You  behave  yourself,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings. 

"Ted  didn't  say  anything  about  your  toothache," 
ses  Emma. 

"I  wouldn't  let  'im,  for  fear  of  alarming  Sophy," 
ses  Charlie. 

Mrs.  Jennings  gave  a  sort  of  laugh  and  a  sniff 
mixed. 

"Ain't  vou  pleased  to  see  me  agin?"  ses 
Charlie. 


Odd  Man  Out 

"I  don't  want  to  see  you,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings. 
"Wot  d'ye  think  I  want  to  see  you  for  ?" 

"Change  your  mind  pretty  quick,  don't  you  ?"  ses 
Charlie.  "It's  blow  'ot  and  blow  cold  with  you 
seemingly.  Why,  I've  been  counting  the  minutes 
till  I  should  see  you  agin." 

Mrs.  Jennings  told  'im  not  to  make  a  fool  of  'imself, 
and  Charlie  saw  'er  look  at  Emma  in  a  puzzled  sort 
of  way,  as  if  she  didn't  know  wot  to  make  of  it.  She 
kept  drawing  away  from  'im  and  he  kept  drawing 
close  to  'er;  other  people  on  the  pavement  dodging 
and  trying  to  get  out  of  their  way,  and  asking  them 
which  side  they  was  going  and  to  stick  to  it. 

"Why  don't  you  behave  yourself?"  ses  Emma,  at 
last. 

"We're  all  right,"  ses  Charlie;  "you  look  arter 
your  own  young  man.  We  can  look  arter  ourselves." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  very 
sharp. 

Charlie  laughed,  and  the  more  Mrs.  Jennings 
showed  'er  dislike  for  'is  nonsense  the  more  he  gave 
way  to  it.  Even  Ted  thought  it  was  going  too  far, 
and  tried  to  interfere  when  he  put  his  arm  round  Mrs. 
Jennings's  waist  and  made  'er  dance  to  a  piano-organ; 
but  there  was  no  stopping  'im,  and  at  last  Mrs. 
Jennings  said  she  had  'ad  enough  of  it,  and  told 
Emma  she  was  going  off  'ome. 

135 


'3* 


Odd   Man  Out 

"Don't  take  no  notice  of  'im,"  ses  Emma. 

"  I  must,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  who  was  arf  crying 
with  rage. 

"Well,  if  you  go  'ome,  I  shall  go,"  ses  Emma.  "I 
don't  want  'is  company.  I  believe  he's  doing  it  on 
purpose." 

"Behave  yourself,  Charlie,"  ses  Ted. 

"All  right,  old  man,"  ses  Charlie.  "You  look 
arter  your  young  woman  and  I'll  look  arter  mine." 

"Your  wot?"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings,  very  loud. 

"My  young  woman,"  ses  Charlie. 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  Emma.  "You  may  as  well  know 
first  as  last — Sophy  'as  got  a  young  man." 

"O'  course  she  'as,"  ses  Charlie.  "Twenty-seven 
on  the  second  of  next  January,  he  is;  same  as  me." 

"She's  going  to  be  married,"  ses  Emma,  very 
solemn. 

"Yes,  to  me,"  ses  Charlie,  pretending  to  be  sur- 
prised. "Didn't  you  know  that?" 

He  looked  so  pleased  with  'imself  at  his  cleverness 
that  Emma  arf  put  up  her  'and,  and  then  she  thought 
better  of  it  and  turned  away. 

"He's  just  doing  it  to  get  rid  of  you,"  she  ses  to 
Mrs.  Jennings,  "and  if  you  give  way  you're  a  bigger 
silly  than  I  took  you  for.  Let  'im  go  on  and  'ave 
his  own  way,  and  tell  your  intended  about  'im  when 
you  see  'im.  Arter  all,  you  started  it." 

137 


Odd   Man  Out 

"I  was  only  'aving  a  bit  o'  fun,"  ses  Mrs.  Jennings. 

"Well,  so  is  he,"  ses  Emma. 

"Not  me!"  ses  Charlie,  turning  his  eyes  up.  "I'm 
in  dead  earnest;  and  so  is  she.  It's  only  shyness  on 
*er  part;  it'll  soon  wear  off." 

He  took  'old  of  Mrs.  Jennings's  arm  agin  and 
began  to  tell  'er  'ow  lonely  'is  life  was  afore  she  came 
acrost  his  path  like  an  angel  that  had  lost  its  way. 
And  he  went  on  like  that  till  she  told  Emma  that  she'd 
either  'ave  to  go  off  'ome  or  scream.  Ted  interfered 
agin  then,  and,  arter  listening  to  wot  he  'ad  got  to 
say,  Charlie  said  as  'ow  he'd  try  and  keep  his  love 
under  control  a  bit  more. 

"She  won't  stand  much  more  of  it,"  he  ses  to  Ted, 
arter  they  'ad  got  'ome  that  night.  "I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  she  don't  turn  up  to-morrow." 

Ted  shook  his  'ead.  "She'll  turn  up  to  oblige 
Emma,"  he  ses;  "but  there's  no  need  for  you  to 
overdo  it,  Charlie.  If  her  young  man  'appened  to 
get  to  'ear  of  it  it  might  cause  trouble." 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  'im,"  ses  Charlie,  "not  if  your 
description  of  'im  is  right." 

"Emma  knows  'im,"  ses  Ted,  "and  I  know  she 
don't  think  much  of  'im.  She  says  he  ain't  as  big 
as  I  am." 

Charlie  smiled  to  himself  and  laid  awake  for  a 
little  while  thinking  of  pet  names  to  surprise  Mrs. 


Odd   Man   Out 

Jennings  with.  He  called  'er  a  fresh  one  every  night 
for  a  week,  and  every  night  he  took  'er  a  little  bunch 
o'  flowers  with  'is  love.  When  she  flung  'em  on  the 
pavement  he  pretended  to  think  she  'ad  dropped  'em; 
but,  do  wot  he  would,  'e  couldn't  frighten  'er  into 
staying  away,  and  'is  share  of  music-'alls  and  bus 
rides  and  things  like  that  was  more  than  'e  cared  to 

O 

think  of.  All  the  time  Ted  was  as  happy  as  a  sand- 
boy, and  one  evening  when  Emma  asked  'im  to  go 
'ome  to  supper  'e  was  so  pleased  'e  could  'ardly 
speak. 

"  Father  thought  he'd  like  to  see  you,"  ses  Emma. 

"I  shall  be  proud  to  shake  'im  by  the  'and,"  ses 
Ted,  going  red  with  joy. 

"And  you're  to  come,  too,  Sophy,"  ses  Emma, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Jennings. 

Charlie  coughed,  feeling  a  bit  orkard-like,  and 
Emma  stood  there  as  if  waiting  for  'im  to  go. 

"Well,  so  long,"  ses  Charlie  at  last.  "Take  care 
o'  my  little  prize  packet." 

"You  can  come,  too,  if  you  like,"  ses  Emma. 
"  Father  said  I  was  to  bring  you.  Don't  'ave  none 
of  your  nonsense  there,  that's  all." 

Charlie  thanked  'er,  and  they  was  all  walking 
along,  him  and  Mrs.  Jennings  behind,  when  Emma 
looked  over  'er  shoulder. 

"  Sophy's  young  man  is  coming,"  she  ses. 
'39 


Odd   Man  Out 

"Ho!"  ses  Charlie.  He  walked  along  doing  a  bit 
o'  thinking,  and  by  and  by  'e  gives  a  little  laugh,  and 
he  ses,  "I — I  don't  think  p'r'aps  I'll  come  arter  all." 

"Afraid  ?"  ses  Emma,  with  a  nasty  laugh. 

"No,"  ses  Charlie. 

"Well,  it  looks  like  it,"  ses  Emma. 

"He's  brave  enough  where  wimmen  are  con- 
cerned," ses  Mrs.  Jennings. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  ses  Charlie. 

"You  needn't  trouble  about  me,"  ses  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings. "I  can  look  after  myself,  thank  you." 

Charlie  looked  round,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
He  got  as  far  away  from  Mrs.  Jennings  as  possible, 
and  when  they  got  to  Emma's  house  he  went  in  last. 

Emma's  father  and  mother  was  there  and  two  or 
three  of  'er  brothers  and  sisters,  but  the  fust  thing  that 
Charlie  noticed  was  a  great  lump  of  a  man  standing 
by  the  mantelpiece  staring  at  'im. 

"Come  in,  and  make  yourselves  at  'ome,"  ses  Mr. 
White.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  both.  Emma  'as  told 
me  all  about  you." 

Charlie's  'art  went  down  into  'is  boots,  but  every- 
body was  so  busy  drawing  their  chairs  up  to  the  table 
that  they  didn't  notice  'ow  pale  he  'ad  gone.  He  sat 
between  Mr.  White  and  Mrs.  Jennings,  and  by  and 
by,  when  everybody  was  talking,  he  turned  to  'im  in 
a  whisper,  and  asked  'im  who  the  big  chap  was. 

140 


Odd   Man  Out 

"Mrs.  Jennings's  brother,"  ses  Mr.  White;  "brew- 
er's drayman  he  is." 

Charlie  said,  "Oh!"  and  went  on  eating,  a  bit 
relieved  in  'is  mind. 

"Your  friend  and  my  gal  '11  make  a  nice  couple," 
ses  Mr.  White,  looking  at  Ted  and  Emma,  sitting 
'and  in  'and. 

"She  couldn't  'ave  a  better  husband,"  ses  Charlie, 
whispering  again;  "but  where  is  Mrs.  Jennings's 
young  man  ?  I  'card  he  was  to  be  here." 

Mr.  White  put  down  'is  knife  and  fork.  "Eh?" 
he  ses,  staring  at  'im. 

"Mrs.  Jennings's  intended  ?"  ses  Charlie. 

"Who  are  you  getting  at  ?"  ses  Mr.  White,  winking 
at  'im. 

"But  she  'as  got  one,  ain't  she?"  ses  Charlie. 

"That'll  do,"  ses  Mr.  White,  with  another  wink. 
"Try  it  on  somebody  else." 

"Wot  are  you  two  talking  about?"  ses  Emma, 
who  'ad  been  watching  'em. 

"He's  trying  to  pull  my  leg,"  ses  Jer  father,  smiling 
all  over  his  face.  "Been  asking  me  where  Mrs. 
Jennings's  young  man  is.  P'r'aps  you  oughtn't  to 
'ave  told  us  yet,  Emma." 

"It's  all  right,"  ses  Emma.  "He's  got  a  very 
jealous  disposition,  poor  fellow;  and  me  and  Sophy 
have  been  telling  'im  about  a  young  man  just  to 

141 


s 


142 


Odd   Man  Out 

tease  'im.  We've  been  describing  him  to  'imself  all 
along,  and  he  thought  it  was  somebody  else." 

She  caught  Charlie's  eye,  and  all  in  a  flash  he  saw 
'ow  he  'ad  been  done.  Some  of  'em  began  to  laugh, 
and  Mrs.  Jennings  put  her  'and  on  his  and  gave  it  a 
squeeze.  He  sat  there  struck  all  of  a  heap,  wonder- 
ing wot  he  was  going  to  do,  and  just  at  that  moment 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  street  door. 

"I'll  open  it,"  he  ses. 

He  jumped  up  before  anybody  could  stop  'im  and 
went  to  the  door.  Two  seconds  arter  Ted  Denver 
followed  'im,  and  the  last  he  ever  saw  of  Charlie 
Brice,  he  was  running  down  the  road  without  'is  hat 
as  hard  as  he  could  run. 


"THE  TOLL-HOUSE 


"  I'm  a  j  oor  man,  but  I  wouldn't  spend  the  night  in  that  house  for 
a  hundred  pounds." 


146 


(c 


The  Toll-House" 


IT'S    all   nonsense,"   said   Jack   Barnes.     "Of 
course    people    have    died    in    the     house; 
people  die  in  every  house.     As  for  the  noises 
— wind  in  the  chimney  and  rats  in  the  wainscot  are 
very  convincing  to  a  nervous  man.     Give  me  another 
cup  of  tea,  Meagle." 

"Lester  and  White  are  first,"  said  Meagle,  who 
was  presiding  at  the  tea-table  of  the  Three  Feathers 
Inn.  "You've  had  two." 

Lester  and  White  finished  their  cups  with  irritating 
slowness,  pausing  between  sips  to  sniff  the  aroma, 
and  to  discover  the  sex  and  dates  of  arrival  of  the 
"strangers"  which  floated  in  some  numbers  in  the 
beverage.  Mr.  Meagle  served  them  to  the  brim, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  grimly  expectant  Mr. 
Barnes,  blandly  requested  him  to  ring  for  hot  water. 

"We'll  try  and  keep  your  nerves  in  their  present 
healthy  condition,"  he  remarked.  "For  my  part 
I  have  a  sort  of  half-and-half  belief  in  the  super- 
natural." 

"All  sensible  people  have,"  said  Lester.  "An 
aunt  of  mine  saw  a  ghost  once." 

H7 


'The  Toll-House" 

White  nodded. 

"I  had  an  uncle  that  saw  one,"  he  said. 

"It  always  is  somebody  else  that  sees  them,"  said 
Barnes. 

"Well,  there  is  a  house,"  said  Meagle,  "a  large 
house  at  an  absurdly  low  rent,  and  nobody  will  take 
it.  It  has  taken  toll  of  at  least  one  life  of  every 
family  that  has  lived  there — however  short  the  time 
—and  since  it  has  stood  empty  caretaker  after  care- 
taker has  died  there.  The  last  caretaker  died  fifteen 
years  ago." 

"Exactly,"  said  Barnes.  "Long  enough  ago  for 
legends  to  accumulate." 

"I'll  bet  you  a  sovereign  you  won't  spend  the  night 
there  alone,  for  all  your  talk,"  said  White,  suddenly. 

"And  I,"  said  Lester. 

"No,"  said  Barnes  slowly.  "I  don't  believe  in 
ghosts  nor  in  any  supernatural  things  whatever;  all 
the  same  I  admit  that  I  should  not  care  to  pass  a 
night  there  alone." 

"But  why  not?"  inquired  White. 

"Wind  in  the  chimney,"  said  Meagle  with  a 
grin. 

"  Rats  in  the  wainscot,"  chimed  in  Lester. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Barnes  coloring. 

"  Suppose  we  all  go, "  said  Meagle.  "  Start  after 
supper,  and  get  there  about  eleven.  We  have  been 

148 


1  The  Toll-House" 

walking  for  ten  days  now  without  an  adventure— 
except  Barnes's  discovery  that  ditchwater  smells 
longest.  It  will  be  a  novelty,  at  any  rate,  and, 
if  we  break  the  spell  by  all  surviving,  the  grateful 
owner  ought  to  come  down  handsome." 

"Let's  see  what  the  landlord  has  to  say  about  it 
first,"  said  Lester.  "There  is  no  fun  in  passing  a 
night  in  an  ordinary  empty  house.  Let  us  make 
sure  that  it  is  haunted." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and,  sending  for  the  landlord, 
appealed  to  him  in  the  name  of  our  common  humanity 
not  to  let  them  waste  a  night  watching  in  a  house  in 
which  spectres  and  hobgoblins  had  no  part.  The 
reply  was  more  than  reassuring,  and  the  landlord, 
after  describing  with  considerable  art  the  exact  ap- 
pearance of  a  head  which  had  been  seen  hanging  out 
of  a  window  in  the  moonlight,  wound  up  with  a  polite 
but  urgent  request  that  they  would  settle  his  bill 
before  they  went. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  young  gentlemen  to  have 
your  fun,"  he  said  indulgently;  "but  supposing  as 
how  you  are  all  found  dead  in  the  morning,  what 
about  me  ?  It  ain't  called  the  Toll-House  for  noth- 
ing, you  know." 

"Who  died  there  last?"  inquired  Barnes,  with  an 
air  of  polite  derision. 

"A  tramp,"  was  the  reply.  "He  went  there  for 
149 


'The  Toll-House" 

the  sake  of  half  a  crown,  and  they  found  him  next 
morning  hanging  from  the  balusters,  dead." 

"Suicide,"  said  Barnes.     "Unsound  mind." 

The  landlord  nodded.  "That's  what  the  jury 
brought  it  in,"  he  said  slowly;  "but  his  mind  was 
sound  enough  when  he  went  in  there.  I'd  known 
him,  off  and  on,  for  years.  I'm  a  poor  man,  but  I 
wouldn't  spend  the  night  in  that  house  for  a  hundred 
pounds." 

He  repeated  this  remark  as  they  started  on  their 
expedition  a  few  hours  later.  They  left  as  the  inn 
was  closing  for  the  night;  bolts  shot  noisily  behind 
them,  and,  as  the  regular  customers  trudged  slowly 
homewards,  they  set  off  at  a  brisk  pace  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house.  Most  of  the  cottages  were  already 
in  darkness,  and  lights  in  others  went  out  as  they 
passed. 

"  It  seems  rather  hard  that  we  have  got  to  lose  a 
night's  rest  in  order  to  convince  Barnes  of  the  exist- 
ence of  ghosts,"  said  White. 

"It's  in  a  good  cause,"  said  Meagle.  "A  most 
worthy  object;  and  something  seems  to  tell  me  that 
we  shall  succeed.  You  didn't  forget  the  candles, 
Lester?" 

"I  have  brought  two,"  was  the  reply;  "all  the  old 
man  could  spare." 

There  was  but  little  moon,  and  the  night  was 

150 


'The  Toll-House" 

cloudy.     The  road  between  high  hedges  was  dark, 
and  in  one  place,  where  it  ran  through  a  wood,  so 


They  saw  the  gates  of  the  house  before  them 

black  that  they  twice  stumbled  in  the  uneven  ground 
at  the  side  of  it. 

"Fancy  leaving  our  comfortable  beds  for  this!" 
said  White  again.  "Let  me  see;  this  desirable  resi- 
dential sepulchre  lies  to  the  right,  doesn't  it?" 

"Farther  on,"  said  Meagle. 

They  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  broken 
only  by  White's  tribute  to  the  softness,  the  cleanliness, 
and  the  comfort  of  the  bed  which  was  receding  far- 
ther and  farther  into  the  distance.  Under  Meagle's 


'The  Toll-House" 

guidance  they  turned  off  at  last  to  the  right,  and, 
after  a  walk  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  saw  the  gates  of 
the  house  before  them. 

The  lodge  was  almost  hidden  by  overgrown  shrubs 
and  the  drive  was  choked  with  rank  growths.  Meagle 
leading,  they  pushed  through  it  until  the  dark  pile 
of  the  house  loomed  above  them. 

"There  is  a  window  at  the  back  where  we  can  get 
in,  so  the  landlord  says,"  said  Lester,  as  they  stood 
before  the  hall  door. 

"Window?"  said  Meagle.  "Nonsense.  Let's  do 
the  thing  properly.  Where's  the  knocker?" 

He  felt  for  it  in  the  darkness  and  gave  a  thundering 
rat-tat-tat  at  the  door. 

"Don't  play  the  fool,"  said  Barnes  crossly. 

"Ghostly  servants  are  all  asleep,"  said  Meagle 
gravely,  "but  /'//  wake  them  up  before- I've  done 
with  them.  It's  scandalous  keeping  us  out  here  in 
the  dark." 

He  plied  the  knocker  again,  and  the  noise  volleyed 
in  the  emptiness  beyond.  Then  with  a  sudden  excla- 
mation he  put  out  his  hands  and  stumbled  for- 
ward. 

"Why,  it  was  open  all  the  time,"  he  said,  with  an 
odd  catch  in  his  voice.  "Come  on." 

"I  don't  believe  it  was  open,"  said  Lester,  hanging 
back.  "Somebody  is  playing  us  a  trick." 

152 


'The  Toll-House " 

"Nonsense,"  said  Meagle  sharply.  "Give  me  a 
candle.  Thanks.  Who's  got  a  match?" 

Barnes  produced  a  box  and  struck  one,  and 
Meagle,  shielding  the  candle  with  his  hand,  led 
the  way  forward  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "Shut 
the  door,  somebody,"  he  said,  "there's  too  much 
draught." 

"It  is  shut,"  said  White,  glancing  behind  him. 

Meagle  fingered  his  chin.  "Who  shut  it?"  he 
inquired,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "Who 
came  in  last?" 

"I  did,"  said  Lester,  "but  I  don't  remember 
shutting  it — perhaps  I  did,  though." 

Meagle,  about  to  speak,  thought  better  of  it,  and, 
still  carefully  guarding  the  flame,  began  to  explore 
the  house,  with  the  others  close  behind.  Shadows 
danced  on  the  walls  and  lurked  in  the  corners  as  they 
proceeded.  At  the  end  of  the  passage  they  found  a 
second  staircase,  and  ascending  it  slowly  gained  the 
first  floor. 

"  Careful !"  said  Meagle,  as  they  gained  the  landing. 

He  held  the  candle  forward  and  showed  where  the 
balusters  had  broken  away.  Then  he  peered  curi- 
ously into  the  void  beneath. 

"This  is  where  the  tramp  hanged  himself,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  thoughtfully. 

"You've     got     an     unwholesome     mind,"     said 

153 


'The  Toll-House" 

White,  as  they  walked  on.  "This  place  is  qutie 
creepy  enough  without  your  remembering  that. 
Now  let's  find  a  comfortable  room  and  have  a 
little  nip  of  whiskey  apiece  and  a  pipe.  How  will 
this  do?" 

He  opened  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage  and 
revealed  a  small  square  room.  Meagle  led  the  way 
with  the  candle,  and,  first  melting  a  drop  or  two  of 
tallow,  stuck  it  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  others 
seated  themselves  on  the  floor  and  watched  pleas- 
antly as  White  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  bottle  of 
whiskey  and  a  tin  cup. 

"H'm!     I've  forgotten  the  water,"  he  exclaimed. 

"I'll  soon  get  some,"  said  Meagle. 

He  tugged  violently  at  the  bell-handle,  and  the 

OO  J 

rusty  jangling  of  a  bell  sounded  from  a  distant 
kitchen.  He  rang  again. 

"  Don't  play  the  fool,"  said  Barnes  roughly. 

Meagle  laughed.  "I  only  wanted  to  convince 
you,"  he  said  kindly.  "There  ought  to  be,  at  any 
rate,  one  ghost  in  the  servants'  hall." 

Barnes  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 

"Yes  ?"  said  Meagle  with  a  grin  at  the  other  two. 
"Is  anybody  coming?" 

"Suppose  we  drop  this  game  and  go  back,"  said 
Barnes  suddenly.  "I  don't  believe  in  spirits,  but 
nerves  are  outside  anybody's  command.  You  may 

154 


'The   Toll-House" 

laugh  as  you  like,  but  it  really  seemed  to  me  that  I 
heard  a  door  open  below  and  steps  on  the  stairs." 

His  voice  was  drowned  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"He  is  coming  round,"  said  Meagle  with  a  smirk. 
"  By  the  time  I  have  done  with  him  he  will  be  a  con- 
firmed believer.  Well,  who  will  go  and  get  some 
water?  Will  you,  Barnes?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply. 

"If  there  is  any  it  might  not  be  safe  to  drink  after 
all  these  years,"  said  Lester.  "We  must  do  with- 
out it." 

Meagle  nodded,  and  taking  a  seat  on  the  floor 
held  out  his  hand  for  the  cup.  Pipes  were  lit  and  the 
clean,  wholesome  smell  of  tobacco  filled  the  room. 
White  produced  a  pack  of  cards;  talk  and  laughter 
rang  through  the  room  and  died  away  reluctantly  in 
distant  corridors. 

"Empty  rooms  always  delude  me  into  the  belief 
that  I  possess  a  deep  voice,"  said  Meagle.  "To- 
morrow I " 

He  started  up  with  a  smothered  exclamation  as  the 
light  went  out  suddenly  and  something  struck  him 
on  the  head.  The  others  sprang  to  their  feet.  Then 
Meagle  laughed. 

"It's  the  candle,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  stick 
it  enough." 

Barnes  struck  a  match  and  relighting  the  candle 

155 


'The  Toll-House " 

stuck  it  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  sitting  down  took 
up  his  cards  again. 

"What  was  I  going  to  say?"  said  Meagle.  "Oh, 
I  know;  to-morrow  I 

"Listen!"  said  White,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
other's  sleeve.  "Upon  my  word  I  really  thought  I 
heard  a  laugh." 

"Look  here!"  said  Barnes.  "What  do  you  say 
to  going  back  ?  I've  had  enough  of  this.  I  keep 
fancying  that  I  hear  things  too;  sounds  of  something 
moving  about  in  the  passage  outside.  I  know  it's 
only  fancy,  but  it's  uncomfortable." 

"You  go  if  you  want  to,"  said  Meagle,  "and  we  will 
play  dummy.  Or  you  might  ask  the  tramp  to  take 
your  hand  for  you,  as  you  go  downstairs." 

Barnes  shivered  and  exclaimed  angrily.  He  got 
up  and,  walking  to  the  half-closed  door,  listened. 

"Go  outside,"  said  Meagle,  winking  at  the  other 
two.  "  I'll  dare  you  to  go  down  to  the  hall  door  and 
back  by  yourself." 

Barnes  came  back  and,  bending  forward,  lit  his 
pipe  at  the  candle. 

"I  am  nervous  but  rational,"  he  said,  blowing  out 
a  thin  cloud  of  smoke.  "My  nerves  tell  me  that 
there  is  something  prowling  up  and  down  the  long 
passage  outside;  my  reason  tells  me  that  it  is  all 
nonsense.  Where  are  my  cards?" 


1  The  Toll-House71 

He  sat  down  again,  and  taking  up  his  hand,  looked 
through  it  carefully  and  led. 

"Your  play,  White,"  he  said  after  a  pause. 

White  made  no  sign. 

"Why,  he  is  asleep,"  said  Meagle.  "Wake  up, 
old  man.  Wake  up  and  play." 

Lester,  who  was  sitting  next  to  him,  took  the  sleep- 
ing man  by  the  arm  and  shook  him,  gently  at  first 
and  then  with  some  roughness;  but  White,  with  his 
back  against  the  wall  and  his  head  bowed,  made  no 
sign.  Meagle  bawled  in  his  ear  and  then  turned  a 
puzzled  face  to  the  others. 

"He  sleeps  like  the  dead,"  he  said,  grimacing. 
"Well,  there  are  still  three  of  us  to  keep  each  other 
company." 

"Yes,"  said  Lester,  nodding.  "Unless —  Good 
Lord!  suppose " 

He  broke  off  and  eyed  them  trembling. 

"Suppose  what?"  inquired  Meagle. 

"Nothing,"  stammered  Lester.  "Let's  wake  him. 
Try  him  again.  White  !  White  !  " 

"It's  no  good,"  said  Meagle  seriously;  "there's 
something  wrong  about  that  sleep." 

"That's  what  I  meant,"  said  Lester;  "and  if  he 
goes  to  sleep  like  that,  why  shouldn't " 

Meagle  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Nonsense,"  he  said 
roughly.  "He's  tired  out;  that's  all.  Still,  let's 

'57 


'The  Toll-House" 

take  him  up  and  clear  out.  You  take  his  legs  and 
Barnes  will  lead  the  way  with  the  candle.  Yes  ? 
Who's  that?" 

He  looked  up  quickly  towards  the  door.  "'  Thought 
I  heard  somebody  tap,"  he  said  with  a  shamefaced 
laugh.  "Now,  Lester,  up  with  him.  One,  two — 
Lester!  Lester!" 

He  sprang  forward  too  late;  Lester,  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  arms,  had  rolled  over  on  the  floor  fast 
asleep,  and  his  utmost  efforts  failed  to  awaken 
him. 

"He — is — asleep,"  he  stammered.     "Asleep!" 

Barnes,  who  had  taken  the  candle  from  the  mantel- 
piece, stood  peering  at  the  sleepers  in  silence  and 
dropping  tallow  over  the  floor. 

"  We  must  get  out  of  this,"  said  Meagle.   "  Quick ! " 

Barnes  hesitated.     "  We  can't  leave  them  here— 
he  began. 

"We  must,"  said  Meagle  in  strident  tones.  "If 
you  go  to  sleep  I  shall  go—  Quick!  Come." 

He  seized  the  other  by  the  arm  and  strove  to  drag 
him  to  the  door.  Barnes  shook  him  off,  and  putting 
the  candle  back  on  the  mantelpiece,  tried  again  to 
arouse  the  sleepers. 

"  It's  no  good,"  he  said  at  last,  and,  turning  from 
them,  watched  Meagle.  "Don't  you  go  to  sleep," 
he  said  anxiously. 

,58 


'The  Toll-House" 

Meagle  shook  his  head,  and  they  stood  for  some 
time  in  uneasy  silence.  "  May  as  well  shut  the  door," 
said  Barnes  at  last. 


Barnes  stood  peering  at  the  sleepers  in  silence  and  dropping 
tallow  over  the  floor. 

He  crossed  over  and  closed  it  gently.  Then  at  a 
scuffling  noise  behind  him  he  turned  and  saw  Meagle 
in  a  heap  on  the  hearthstone. 

With  a  sharp  catch  in  his  breath  he  stood  motion- 


'The  Toll-House" 

less.  Inside  the  room  the  candle,  fluttering  in  the 
draught,  showed  dimly  the  grotesque  attitudes  of  the 
sleepers.  Beyond  the  door  there  seemed  to  his  over- 
wrought imagination  a  strange  and  stealthy  unrest. 
He  tried  to  whistle,  but  his  lips  were  parched,  and  in 
a  mechanical  fashion  he  stooped,  and  began  to  pick 
up  the  cards  which  littered  the  floor. 

He  stopped  once  or  twice  and  stood  with  bent  head 
listening.  The  unrest  outside  seemed  to  increase; 
a  loud  creaking  sounded  from  the  stairs. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  cried  loudly. 

The  creaking  ceased.  He  crossed  to  the  door  and 
flinging  it  open,  strode  out  into  the  corridor.  As  he 
walked  his  fears  left  him  suddenly. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried  with  a  low  laugh.  "All  of 
you!  All  of  you!  Show  your  faces — your  infernal 
ugly  faces!  Don't  skulk!" 

He  laughed  again  and  walked  on;  and  the  heap 
in  the  fireplace  put  out  his  head  tortoise  fashion  and 
listened  in  horror  to  the  retreating  footsteps.  Not 
until  they  had  become  inaudible  in  the  distance  did 
the  listeners'  features  relax. 

"Good  Lord,  Lester,  we've  driven  him  mad,"  he 
said  in  a  frightened  whisper.  "We  must  go  after 
him." 

There  was  no  reply.     Meagle  sprung  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  hear?"  he  cried.  "Stop  your  fooling 

1 60 


'The  Toll-House" 

now;     this    is    serious.     White!     Lester!     Do    you 
hear?" 

He  bent  and  surveyed  them  in  angry  bewilderment. 
"All  right,"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice.  "You 
won't  frighten  me,  you  know." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  with  exaggerated  care- 
lessness in  the  direction  of  the  door.  He  even  went 
outside  and  peeped  through  the  crack,  but  the  sleep- 
ers did  not  stir.  He  glanced  into  the  blackness  be- 
hind, and  then  came  hastily  into  the  room  again. 

He  stood  for  a  few  seconds  regarding  them.  The 
stillness  in  the  house  was  horrible;  he  could  not  even 
hear  them  breathe.  With  a  sudden  resolution  he 
snatched  the  candle  from  the  mantelpiece  and  held 
the  flame  to  White's  finger.  Then  as  he  reeled  back 
stupefied  the  footsteps  again  became  audible. 

He  stood  with  the  candle  in  his  shaking  hand 
listening.  He  heard  them  ascending  the  farther 
staircase,  but  they  stopped  suddenly  as  he  went  to 
the  door.  He  walked  a  little  way  along  the  passage, 
and  they  went  scurrying  down  the  stairs  and  then  at 
a  jog-trot  along  the  corridor  below.  He  went  back 
to  the  main  staircase,  and  they  ceased  again. 

For  a  time  he  hung  over  the  balusters,  listening  and 
trying  to  pierce  the  blackness  below;  then  slowly, 
step  by  step,  he  made  his  way  downstairs,  and,  holding 
the  candle  above  his  head,  peered  about  him. 

161 


'The  Toll-House " 

"Barnes!"  he  called.     "Where  are  you  ?" 

Shaking  with  fright,  he  made  his  way  along  the 
passage,  and  summoning  up  all  his  courage  pushed 
open  doors  and  gazed  fearfully  into  empty  rooms. 
Then,  quite  suddenly,  he  heard  the  footsteps  in  front 
of  him. 

He  followed  slowly  for  fear  of  extinguishing  the 
candle,  until  they  led  him  at  last  into  a  vast  bare 
kitchen  with  damp  walls  and  a  broken  floor.  In 
front  of  him  a  door  leading  into  an  inside  room 
had  just  closed.  He  ran  towards  it  and  flung  it 
open,  and  a  cold  air  blew  out  the  candle.  He  stood 
aghast. 

"Barnes!"  he  cried  again.  "Don't  be  afraid!  It 
is  I — Meagle!" 

There  was  no  answer.  He  stood  gazing  into  the 
darkness,  and  all  the  time  the  idea  of  something  close 
at  hand  watching  was  upon  him.  Then  suddenly 
the  steps  broke  out  overhead  again. 

He  drew  back  hastily,  and  passing  through  the 
kitchen  groped  his  way  along  the  narrow  passages. 
He  could  now  see  better  in  the  darkness,  and  finding 
himself  at  last  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  began  to 
ascend  it  noiselessly.  He  reached  the  landing  just 
in  time  to  see  a  figure  disappear  round  the  angle 
of  a  wall.  Still  careful  to  make  no  noise,  he  followed 
the  sound  of  the  steps  until  they  led  him  to  the  top 

162 


'The  Toll-House  " 

floor,  and  he  cornered  the  chase  at  the  end  ef  a  short 
passage. 

"  Barnes ! "  he  whispered.     "  Barnes ! " 


Into  a  vast  bare  kitchen  with  damp  walls  and  a  broken  floor. 

Something  stirred  in  the  darkness.     A  small  circu- 
lar window  at  the  end  of  the  passage  just  softened 

163 


.. 


The   Toll-House  " 


the  blackness  and  revealed  the  dim  outlines  of  a 
motionless  figure.  Meagle,  in  place  of  advancing, 
stood  almost  as  still  as  a  sudden  horrible  doubt  took 
possession  of  him.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  shape 
in  front  he  fell  back  slowly  and,  as  it  advanced  upon 
him,  burst  into  a  terrible  cry. 

"Barnes!     For  God's  sake!     Is  it  you?" 

The  echoes  of  his  voice  left  the  air  quivering,  but 
the  figure  before  him  paid  no  heed.  For  a  moment 
he  tried  to  brace  his  courage  up  to  endure  its  ap- 
proach, then  with  a  smothered  cry  he  turned  and 
fled. 

The  passages  wound  like  a  maze,  and  he  threaded 
them  blindly  in  a  vain  search  for  the  stairs.  If  he 
could  get  down  and  open  the  hall  door 

He  caught  his  breath  in  a  sob;  the  steps  had  begun 
again.  At  a  lumbering  trot  they  clattered  up  and 
down  the  bare  passages,  in  and  out,  up  and  down, 
as  though  in  search  of  him.  He  stood  appalled,  and 
then  as  they  drew  near  entered  a  small  room  and 
stood  behind  the  door  as  they  rushed  by.  He  came 
out  and  ran  swiftly  and  noiselessly  in  the  other 
direction,  and  in  a  moment  the  steps  were  after  him. 
He  found  the  long  corridor  and  raced  along  it  at  top 
speed.  The  stairs  he  knew  were  at  the  end,  and 
with  the  steps  close  behind  he  descended  them  in 
blind  haste.  The  steps  gained  on  him,  and  he 


All  three  stood  gazing  at  the  dead  man  below. 
165 


"The  Toll-House" 

shrank  to  the  side  to  let  them  pass,  still  continuing 
his  headlong  flight.  Then  suddenly  he  seemed  to 
slip  off  the  earth  into  space. 

Lester  awoke  in  the  morning  to  find  the  sunshine 
streaming  into  the  room,  and  White  sitting  up  and 
regarding  with  some  perplexity  a  badly  blistered 
finger. 

"Where  are  the  others?"  inquired  Lester. 

"Gone,  I  suppose,"  said  White.  "We  must  have 
been  asleep." 

Lester  arose,  and  stretching  his  stiffened  limbs, 
dusted  his  clothes  with  his  hands,  and  went  out  into 
the  corridor.  White  followed.  At  the  noise  of  their 
approach  a  figure  which  had  been  lying  asleep  at  the 
other  end  sat  up  and  revealed  the  face  of  Barnes. 
"Why,  I've  been  asleep,"  he  said  in  surprise.  "I 
don't  remember  coming  here.  How  did  I  get  here  ?" 

"Nice  place  to  come  for  a  nap,"  said  Lester, 
severely,  as  he  pointed  to  the  gap  in  the  balusters. 
"Look  there!  Another  yard  and  where  would  you 
have  been  ?" 

He  walked  carelessly  to  the  edge  and  looked  over. 
In  response  to  his  startled  cry  the  others  drew  near, 
and  all  three  stood  gazing  at  the  dead  man  below. 


166 


PETER'S   PENCE 


Put  a  bishop  in  my  clothes,  and  you'd  ask  Fim  to  'avc  a  'arf-pint  as 
soon  as  you  would  me. 


168 


Peter's  Pence 

SAILORMEN  don't  bother  much  about  their 
relations,   as  a  rule,   said   the   night-watch- 
man; sometimes  because  a  railway-ticket  costs 
as  much  as  a  barrel  o'  beer,  and  they  ain't  got  the 
money  for  both,  and  sometimes  because  most  rela- 
tions run  away  with  the  idea  that  a  sailorman  has 
been   knocking  about   'arf  over  the  world  just  to 
bring  them  'ome  presents. 

Then,  agin,  some  relations  are  partikler  about  ap- 
pearances, and  they  don't  like  it  if  a  chap  don't  wear 
a  collar  and  tidy  'imself  up.  Dress  is  everything 
nowadays;  put  me  in  a  top  'at  and  a  tail-coat,  with 
a  twopenny  smoke  stuck  in  my  mouth,  and  who 
would  know  the  difference  between  me  and  a  lord  ? 
Put  a  bishop  in  my  clothes,  and  you'd  ask  'im  to 
'ave  a  'arf-pint  as  soon  as  you  would  me — sooner, 
p'r'aps. 

Talking  of  relations  reminds  me  of  Peter  Russet's 
uncle.  It's  some  years  ago  now,  and  Peter  and  old 
Sam  Small  and  Ginger  Dick  'ad  just  come  back  arter 
being  away  for  nearly  ten  months.  They  'ad  all  got 

169 


Peter's   Pence 

money  in  their  pockets,  and  they  was  just  talking 
about  the  spree  they  was  going  to  have,  when  a  letter 
was  brought  to  Peter,  wot  had  been  waiting  for  'im 
at  the  office. 

He  didn't  like  opening  it  at  fust.  The  last  letter 
he  had  'ad  kept  'im  hiding  indoors  for  a  week,  and 
then  made  him  ship  a  fortnight  afore  'e  had  meant  to. 
He  stood  turning  it  over  and  over,  and  at  last,  arter 
Sam,  wot  was  always  a  curious  man,  'ad  told  'im 
that  if  he  didn't  open  it  he'd  do  it  for  'im,  he  tore  it 
open  and  read  it. 

"It's  from  my  old  uncle,  George  Goodman,"  he 
ses,  staring.  "Why,  I  ain't  seen  'im  for  over  twenty 
years." 

"Do  you  owe  'im  any  money  ?"  ses  Sam. 

Peter  shook  his  'ead.  "He's  up  in  London,"  he 
ses,  looking  at  the  letter  agin,  "up  in  London  for  the 
fust  time  in  thirty-three  years,  and  he  wants  to  come 
and  stay  with  me  so  that  I  can  show  'im  about." 

"Wot  is  he?  "ses  Sam. 

"  He's  retired,"  ses  Peter,  trying  not  to  speak  proud. 

"Got  money  ?"  ses  Sam,  with  a  start. 

"I  b'leeve  so,"  ses  Peter,  in  a  off-hand  way.  "I 
don't  s'pose  'e  lives  on  air." 

"Any  wives  or  children  ?"  ses  Sam. 

"No,"  ses  Peter.     "He  'ad  a  wife,  but  she  died." 

"Then  you  have  'im,  Peter,"  ses  Sam,  wot  was 
170 


Peter's   Pence 

always  looking  out  for  money.  "Don't  throw  away 
a  oppertunity  like  that.  Why,  if  you  treat  'im  well 
he  might  leave  it  all  to  you." 

"No  such  luck,"  ses  Peter. 

"You  do  as  Sam  ses,"  ses  Ginger.  "I  wish  I'd 
got  an  uncle." 

"We'll  try  and  give  'im  a  good  time,"  ses  Sam, 
"and  if  he's  anything  like  Peter  we  shall  enjoy  our- 
selves." 

"Yes;  but  he  ain't,"  ses  Peter.  "He's  a  very 
solemn,  serious-minded  man,  and  a  strong  teetotaller. 
Wot  you'd  call  a  glass  o'  beer  he'd  call  pison.  That's 
'ow  he  got  on.  He's  thought  a  great  deal  of  in  'is 
place,  I  can  tell  you,  but  he  ain't  my  sort." 

"That's  a  bit  orkard,"  ses  Sam,  scratching  his 
'ead.  "Same  time,  it  don't  do  to  throw  away  a 
chance.  If  'e  was  my  uncle  I  should  pretend  to  be 
a  teetotaller  while  'e  was  here,  just  to  please  'im." 

"And  when  you  felt  like  a  drink,  Peter,"  ses  Ginger, 
"me  and  Sam  would  look  arter  'im  while  you  slipped 
off  to  get  it." 

"He  could  'ave  the  room  below  us,"  ses  Sam.  "It 
is  empty." 

Peter  gave  a  sniff.  "  Wot  about  you  and  Ginger  ?" 
he  ses. 

"Wot  about  us?"  ses  Sam  and  Ginger,  both  to- 
gether. 

171 


Mr.  Goodman  came  in  a  four-wheel  cab  with  a  big  bag  and  a  fat  umbrella. 


172 


Peter's   Pence 

"Why,  you'd  'ave  to  be  teetotallers,  too,"  ses 
Peter.  "Wot's  the  good  o'  me  pretending  to  be 
steady  if  'e  sees  I've  got  pals  like  you  ?" 

Sam  scratched  his  'ead  agin,  ever  so  long,  and  at 
last  he  ses,  "Well,  mate,"  he  ses,  "drink  don't 
trouble  me  nor  Ginger.  We  can  do  without  it,  as 
far  as  that  goes;  and  we  must  all  take  it  in  turns  to 
keep  the  old  gentleman  busy  while  the  others  go  and 
get  wot  they  want.  You'd  better  go  and  take  the 
room  downstairs  for  'im,  afore  it  goes." 

Peter  looked  at  'im  in  surprise,  but  that  was  Sam 
all  over.  The  idea  o'  knowing  a  man  with  money 
was  too  much  for  'im,  and  he  sat  there  giving  good 
advice  to  Peter  about  'is  behavior  until  Peter  didn't 
know  whether  it  was  'is  uncle  or  Sam's.  'Owever, 
he  took  the  room  and  wrote  the  letter,  and  next  arter- 
noon  at  three  o'clock  Mr.  Goodman  came  in  a  four- 
wheel  cab  with  a  big  bag  and  a  fat  umbrella.  A  short, 
stiffish-built  man  of  about  sixty  he  was,  with  'is  top 
lip  shaved  and  a  bit  o'  short  gray  beard.  He  'ad  on 
a  top  'at  and  a  tail-coat,  black  kid  gloves  and  a  little 
black  bow,  and  he  didn't  answer  the  cabman  back 
a  single  word. 

He  seemed  quite  pleased  to  see  Peter,  and  by  and 
by  Sam,  who  was  bursting  with  curiosity,  came  down- 
stairs to  ask  Peter  to  lend  'im  a  boot-lace,  and  was 
interduced.  Then  Ginger  came  down  to  look  for 

173 


Peter's   Pence 

Sam,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  was  all  talking  as 
comfortable  as  possible. 

"I  ain't  seen  Peter  for  twenty  years,"  ses  Mr. 
Goodman — "twenty  long  years!" 

Sam  shook  his  'ead  and  looked  at  the  floor. 

"  I  happened  to  go  and  see  Peter's  sister — my  niece 
Polly,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  "and  she  told  me  the  name 
of  'is  ship.  It  was  quite  by  chance,  because  she  told 
me  it  was  the  fust  letter  she  had  'ad  from  him  in  seven 
years." 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  so  long  as  that,"  ses  Peter. 
"Time  passes  so  quick." 

His  uncle  nodded.  "Ah,  so  it  does,"  'e  ses.  "  It's 
all  the  same  whether  we  spend  it  on  the  foaming 
ocean  or  pass  our  little  lives  ashore.  Afore  we  can 
turn  round,  in  a  manner  o'  speaking,  it  'as  gorn." 

"The  main  thing,"  ses  Peter,  in  a  good  voice,  "is 
to  pass  it  properly." 

"Then  it  don't  matter,"  ses  Ginger. 

"So  it  don't,"  ses  Sam,  very  serious. 

"I  held  'im  in  my  arms  when  'e  was  a  baby,"  ses 
Mr.  Goodman,  looking  at  Peter. 

"Fond  o'  children?"  ses  Sam. 

Mr.  Goodman  nodded.     "Fond  of  everybody,"  he 


ses. 

M 


That's   'ow   Peter   is,"   ses   Ginger;    "specially 

young " 

174 


Peter's   Pence 

Peter  Russet  and  Sam  both  turned  and  looked  at 
'im  very  sharp. 

"Children,"  ses  Ginger,  remembering  'imself,  "and 
teetotallers.  I  s'pose  it  is  being  a  teetotaller  'imself." 

"  Is  Peter  a  teetotaller  ?"  ses  Mr.  Goodman.  "  I'd 
no  idea  of  it.  Wot  a  joyful  thing!" 

"  It  was  your  example  wot  put  it  into  his  'ead  fust, 
I  b'leeve,"  ses  Sam,  looking  at  Peter  for  'im  to  notice 
'ow  clever  he  was. 

"And  then,  Sam  and  Ginger  Dick  being  teetotallers 
too,"  ses  Peter,  "we  all,  natural-like,  keep  together." 

Mr.  Goodman  said  they  was  wise  men,  and,  arter 
a  little  more  talk,  he  said  'ow  would  it  be  if  they  went 
out  and  saw  a  little  bit  of  the  great  wicked  city  ? 
They  all  said  they  would,  and  Ginger  got  quite 
excited  about  it  until  he  found  that  it  meant  London. 

They  got  on  a  bus  at  Aldgate,  and  fust  of  all  they 
went  to  the  British  Museum,  and  when  Mr.  Good- 
man was  tired  o'  that — and  long  arter  the  others  was 
— they  went  into  a  place  and  'ad  a  nice  strong  cup 
of  tea  and  a  piece  o'  cake  each.  When  they  come  out 
o' there  they  all  walked  about  looking  at  the  shops  until 
they  was  tired  out,  and  arter  wot  Mr.  Goodman 
said  was  a  very  improving  evening  they  all  went  'ome. 

Sam  and  Ginger  went  'ome  just  for  the  look  'o 
the  thing,  and  arter  waiting  a  few  minutes  in  their 
room  they  crept  downstairs  agin  to  spend  wot  was 


Peter's   Pence 

left  of  the  evening.  They  went  down  as  quiet  as 
mice,  but,  for  all  that,  just  as  they  was  passing  Mr. 
Goodman's  room  the  door  opened,  and  Peter,  in  a 
polite  voice,  asked  'em  to  step  inside. 

"We  was  just  thinking  you'd  be  dull  up  there  all 
alone,"  he  ses. 

Sam  lost  'is  presence  o'  mind,  and  afore  he  knew 
wot  'e  was  doing  'im  and  Ginger  'ad  walked  in  and 
sat  down.  They  sat  there  for  over  an  hour  and  a 
'arf  talking,  and  then  Sam,  with  a  look  at  Ginger,  said 
they  must  be  going,  because  he  'ad  got  to  call  for  a 
pair  o'  boots  he  'ad  left  to  be  mended. 

"Why,  Sam,  wot  are  you  thinking  of?"  ses  Peter, 
who  didn't  want  anybody  to  'ave  wot  he  couldn't. 
"Why,  the  shop's  shut." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  ses  Sam,  glaring  at  'im.  "  Any- 
way, we  can  go  and  see." 

Peter  said  he'd  go  with  Jim,  and  just  as  they  got  to 
the  door  Mr.  Goodman  said  he'd  go  too.  O'  course, 
the  shops  was  shut,  and  arter  Mr.  Goodman  'ad  stood 
on  Tower  Hill  admiring  the  Tower  by  moonlight  till 
Sam  felt  ready  to  drop,  they  all  walked  back.  Three 
times  Sam's  boot-lace  come  undone,  but  as  the  others 
all  stopped  too  to  see  'im  do  it  up  it  didn't  do  'im 
much  good.  Wot  with  temper  and  dryness  'e  could 
'ardly  bid  Peter  "Good-night." 

Sam  and  Ginger  'ad  something  the  next  morning, 

176 


Peter's   Pence 

but  morning  ain't  the  time  for  it;  and  arter  they  had 
'ad  dinner  Mr.  Goodman  asked  'em  to  go  to  the 
Zoological  Gardens  with  'im.  He  paid  for  them  all, 
and  he  'ad  a  lot  to  say  about  kindness  to  animals  and 
'ow  you  could  do  anything  with  'em  a'most  by  kind- 
ness. He  walked  about  the  place  talking  like  a  book, 
and  when  a  fat  monkey,  wot  was  pretending  to  be 
asleep,  got  a  bit  o'  Sam's  whisker,  he  said  it  was  on'y 
instink,  and  the  animal  had  no  wish  to  do  'im  'arm. 

"Very  likely  thought  it  was  doing  you  a  kindness, 
Sam,"  ses  Ginger. 

Mr.  Goodman  said  it  was  very  likely,  afore  Sam 
could  speak,  and  arter  walking  about  and  looking  at 
the  other  things  they  come  out  and  'ad  a  nice,  strong, 
'ot  cup  o'  tea,  same  as  they  'ad  the  day  before,  and 
then  walked  about,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
themselves. 

Sam  got  tired  of  it  fust,  and  catching  Ginger's  eye 
said  he  thought  it  was  time  to  get  'ome  in  case  too 
much  enjoyment  wasn't  good  for  'em.  His  idea  was 
to  get  off  with  Ginger  and  make  a  night  of  it,  and 
when  'e  found  Peter  and  his  uncle  was  coming  too, 
he  began  to  think  that  things  was  looking  serious. 

"  I  don't  want  to  spile  your  evening,"  he  says,  very 
perlite.  "  I  must  get  'ome  to  mend  a  pair  o'  trowsis 
o'  mine,  but  there's  no  need  for  you  to  come." 

"  I'll  come  and  watch  you,"  ses  Peter's  uncle. 
177 


Peter's   Pence 

"And  then  I'm  going  off  to  bed  early,"  ses  Sam. 

"Me,  too,"  ses  Ginger,  and  Peter  said  he  could 
hardly  keep  'is  eyes  open. 

They  got  on  a  bus,  and  as  Sam  was  about  to  foller 
Ginger  and  Peter  on  top,  Mr.  Goodman  took  hold 
of  'im  by  the  arm  and  said  they'd  go  inside.  He  paid 
two  penny  fares,  and  while  Sam  was  wondering  'ow 
to  tell  'im  that  it  would  be  threepence  each,  the  bus 
stopped  to  take  up  a  passenger  and  he  got  up  and 
moved  to  the  door. 

"They've  gone  up  there,"  he  ses,  pointing. 

Afore  Sam  could  stop  'im  he  got  off,  and  Sam,  full 
o'  surprise,  got  off  too,  and  follered  'im  on  to  the 
pavement. 

"Who's  gone  up  there?"  he  ses,  as  the  bus  went 
on  agin. 

"Peter  and  Mr.  Ginger  Dick,"  ses  Mr.  Good- 
man. "But  don't  you  trouble.  You  go  'ome  and 
mend  your  trowsis." 

"  But  they're  on  the  bus,"  ses  Sam,  staring.  "  Dick 
and  Peter,  I  mean." 

Mr.  Goodman  shook  his  'ead. 

"They  got  off.     Didn't  you  see  'em  ?"  he  ses. 

"No,"  ses  Sam,  "I'll  swear  they  didn't." 

"Well,  it's  my  mistake,  I  s'pose,"  ses  Peter's  uncle. 
"But  you  get  off  home;  I'm  not  tired  yet,  and  I'll 
walk." 

178 


Peter's  Pence 

Sam  said  'e  wasn't  very  tired,  and  he  walked 
along  wondering  whether  Mr.  Goodman  was 
quite  right  in  his  'ead.  For  one  thing,  'e  seemed 
upset  about  something  or  other,  and  kept  taking 
little  peeps  at  'im  in  a  way  he  couldn't  understand 
at  all. 

"It  was  nice  tea  we  'ad  this  arternoon,"  ses  Mr. 
Goodman  at  last. 

"De-licious,"  ses  Sam. 

"Trust  a  teetotaller  for  knowing  good  tea,"  ses 
Mr.  Goodman.  "I  expect  Peter  enjoyed  it.  I 
s'pose  'e  is  a  very  strict  teetotaller  ?" 

"Strict  ain't  the  word  for  it,"  ses  Sam,  trying  to 
do  'is  duty  by  Peter.  "We  all  are." 

"That's  right,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  and  he  pushed 

his  'at  back  and  looked  at  Sam  very  serious.     They 

walked   on   a   bit  further,   and   then   Peter's   uncle 

stopped   sudden  just  as  they  was   passing  a  large 

.  public-'ouse  and  looked  at  Sam. 

"  I  don't  want  Peter  to  know,  'cos  it  might  alarm 
'im,"  he  ses,  "but  I've  come  over  a  bit  faint.  I'll 
go  in  'ere  for  'arf  a  minnit  and  sit  down.  You'd 
better  wait  outside." 

"I'll  come  in  with  you,  in  case  you  want  help,"  ses 
Sam.  "I  don't  mind  wot  people  think." 

Mr.  Goodman  tried  to  persuade  'im  not  to,  but  it 
was  all  no  good,  and  at  last  'e  walked  in  and  sat  down 

179 


Peter's   Pence 

on  a  tall  stool  that  stood  agin  the  bar,  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  'ead. 

"I  s'pose  we  shall  'ave  to  'ave  something,"  he  ses 
in  a  whisper  to  Sam;  "we  can't  expect  to  come  in  and 
sit  down  for  nothing.  What'll  you  take?" 

Sam  looked  at  'im,  but  he  might  just  as  well  ha* 
looked  at  a  brass  door-knob. 

"I — I — I'll  'ave  a  small  ginger-beer,"  he  ses  at 
last,  "a  very  small  one." 

"One  small  ginger,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman  to  the  bar- 
maid, "and  one  special  Scotch." 

Sam  could  'ardly  believe  his  ears,  and  he  stood 
there  'oldin*  his  glass  o'  ginger-beer  and  watching 
Peter's  teetotal  uncle  drink  whiskey,  and  thought  'e 
must  be  dreaming. 

"I  dessay  it  seems  very  shocking  to  you,"  ses 
Mr.  Goodman,  putting  down  'is  glass  and  dryin' 
'is  lips  on  each  other,  "  but  I  find  it  useful  for  these 
attacks." 

"I — I  s'pose  the  flavor's  very  nasty?"  ses  Sam, 
taking  a  sip  at  'is  ginger-beer. 

"Not  exactly  wot  you  could  call  nasty,"  ses  Mr. 
Goodman,  "though  I  dessay  it  would  seem  so  to 
you.  I  don't  suppose  you  could  swallow  it." 

"I  don't  s'pose  I  could,"  ses  Sam,  "but  I've  a  good 
mind  to  'ave  a  try.  If  it's  good  for  one  teetotaller  I 
don't  see  why  it  should  hurt  another." 

1 80 


"  It  aint  so  'orrid  as  I  'ad  fancied,"  ses  Sam. 


181 


Peter's   Pence 

Mr.  Goodman  looked  at  'im  very  hard,  and  then 
he  ordered  a  whiskey  and  stood  watching  while  Sam, 
arter  pretending  for  a  minnit  to  look  at  it  as  though 
'e  didn't  know  wot  to  do  with  it,  took  a  sip  and  let 
it  roll  round  'is  mouth. 

"Well  ?"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  looking  at  'im  anxious- 
like. 

"It  ain't  so  'orrid  as  I  'ad  fancied,"  ses  Sam,  lap- 
ping up  the  rest  very  gentle.  "  'Ave  you  'ad  enough 
to  do  you  all  the  good  it  ought  to  ?" 

Mr.  Goodman  said  that  it  was  no  good  'arf  doing 
a  thing,  and  p'r'aps  he  'ad  better  'ave  one  more; 
and  arter  Sam  'ad  paid  for  the  next  two  they  went 
out  arm-in-arm. 

"'Ow  cheerful  everybody  looks!"  ses  Mr.  Good- 
man, smiling. 

"They're  going  to  amuse  theirselves,  I  expect," 
ses  Sam — "music-'alls  and  such-like." 

Mr.  Goodman  shook  his  'ead  at  'em. 

"Music-'alls  ain't  so  bad  as  some  people  try  to 
make  out,"  ses  Sam.  "Look  'ere;  I  took  some  drink 
to  see  what  the  flavor  was  like;  suppose  you  go  to  a 
music-'all  to  see  wot  that's  like?" 

"  It  seems  on'y  fair,"  ses  Peter's  uncle,  considering. 

"It  is  fair,"  ses  Sam,  and  twenty  minutes  arter- 
wards  they  was  sitting  in  a  music-'all  drinking  each 
other's  'ealths  and  listening  to  the  songs — Mr.  Good- 

182 


Peter's  Pence 

man  with  a  big  cigar  in  'is  mouth  and  his  'at  cocked 
over  one  eye,  and  Sam  beating  time  to  the  music 
with  'is  pipe. 

"'Ow  do  you  like  it  ?"  he  ses. 

Mr.  Goodman  didn't  answer  'im  because  'e  was 
joining  in  the  chorus  with  one  side  of  'is  mouth  and 
keeping  'is  cigar  alight  with  the  other.  He  just 
nodded  at  'im;  but  'e  looked  so  'appy  that  Sam  felt 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  sit  there  and  look  at  'im. 

"I  wonder  wot  Peter  and  Ginger  is  doin'  ?"  he  ses, 
when  the  song  was  finished. 

"I  don't  know,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  "and,  wot's 
more,  I  don't  care.  If  I'd  'ad  any  idea  that  Peter 
was  like  wot  he  is  I  should  never  'ave  wrote  to  'im. 
I  can't  think  'ow  you  can  stand  'im." 

"He  ain't  so  bad,"  ses  Sam,  wondering  whether 
he  ought  to  tell  'im  'arf  of  wot  Peter  really  was  like. 

"Bad!"  ses  Mr.  Goodman.  "I  come  up  to 
London  for  a  'oliday — a  change,  mind  you — and  I 
thought  Peter  and  me  was  going  to  'ave  a  good  time. 
Instead  o'  that,  he  goes  about  with  a  face  as  long  as 
a  fiddle.  He  don't  drink,  'e  don't  go  to  places  of 
amusement — innercent  places  of  amusement — and  'is 
idea  of  enjoying  life  is  to  go  walking  about  the  streets 
and  drinking  cups  o'  tea." 

"We  must  try  and  alter  'im,"  ses  Sam,  arter  doing 
a  bit  o'  thinking. 

183 


Peters'   Pence 

"Certainly  not,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  laying  his 
'and  on  Sam's  knee.  "  Far  be  it  from  me  to  interfere 
with  a  feller-creature's  ideas  o'  wot's  right.  Besides, 
he  might  get  writing  to  'is  sister  agin,  and  she  might 
tell  my  wife." 

"But  Peter  said  she  was  dead,"  ses  Sam,  very 
puzzled. 

"I  married  agin,"  ses  Peter's  uncle,  in  a  whisper, 
'cos  people  was  telling  'im  to  keep  quiet,  "a  tartar— 
a  perfect  tartar.  She's  in  a  'orsepittle  at  present, 
else  I  shouldn't  be  'ere.  And  I  shouldn't  ha*  been 
able  to  come  if  I  'adn't  found  five  pounds  wot  she'd 
hid  in  a  match-box  up  the  chimbley." 

"But  wot'll  you  do  when  she  finds  it  out?"  ses 
Sam,  opening  'is  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  'ave  the  house  cleaned  and  the 
chimbleys  swept  to  welcome  her  'ome,"  ses  Mr. 
Goodman,  taking  a  sip  o'  whiskey.  "  It'll  be  a  little 
surprise  for  her." 

They  stayed  till  it  was  over,  and  on  the  bus  he 
gave  Sam  some  strong  peppermint  lozenges  wot  'e 
always  carried  about  with  'im,  and  took  some  'imself. 
He  said  'e  found  'em  helpful. 

"What  are  we  going  to  tell  Peter  and  Ginger?" 
ses  Sam,  as  they  got  near  the  'ouse. 

"Tell  'em?"  ses  Mr.  Goodman.  "Tell  'em  the 
truth.  How  we  follered  'em  when  they  got  off  the 


Peter's  Pence 

bus,  and  'ave  been  looking  for  'em  ever  since.  I'm 
not  going  to  'ave  my  'oliday  spoilt  by  a  teetotal  nevvy, 
I  can  tell  you." 

He  started  on  Peter,  wot  was  sitting  on  his  bed 
with  Ginger  waiting  for  them,  the  moment  he  got 
inside,  and  all  Ginger  and  Peter  could  say  didn't 
make  any  difference. 

"Mr.  Small  see  you  as  plain  as  what  I  did,"  he 
ses. 

"Plainer,"  ses  Sam. 

"  But  I  tell  you  we  come  straight  'ome,"  ses  Ginger, 
"  and  we've  been  waiting  for  you  'ere  ever  since." 

Mr.  Goodman  shook  his  'ead  at  'im.  "Say  no 
more  about  it,"  he  ses,  in  a  kind  voice.  "I  dessay 
it's  rather  tiresome  for  young  men  to  go  about  with 
two  old  ones,  and  in  future,  if  you  and  Peter  keep 
together,  me  and  my  friend  Mr.  Small  will  do  the 
same." 

Sam  shook  'ands  with  'im,  and  though  Peter  tried 
his  'ardest  to  make  'im  alter  his  mind  it  was  no  good. 
His  uncle  patted  'im  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  they'd 
try  it  for  a  few  days,  at  any  rate,  and  Ginger,  wot 
thought  it  was  a  very  good  idea,  backed  'im  up. 
Everybody  seemed  pleased  with  the  idea  except  Peter 
Russet,  but  arter  Sam  'ad  told  'im  in  private  wot  a 
high  opinion  'is  uncle  'ad  got  of  'im,  and  'ow  well 
off  he  was,  'e  gave  way. 


Peter's   Pence 

They  all  enjoyed  the  next  evening,  and  Sam  and 
Mr.  Goodman  got  on  together  like  twin  brothers. 
They  went  to  a  place  of  amusement  every  night,  and 
the  on'y  unpleasantness  that  happened  was  when 
Peter's  uncle  knocked  a  chemist's  shop  up  at  a 
quarter-past  twelve  one  night  to  buy  a  penn'orth  o' 
peppermint  lozenges. 

They  'ad  four  of  the  'appiest  evenings  together 
that  Sam  'ad  ever  known;  and  Mr.  Goodman  would 
'ave  been  just  as  'appy  too  if  it  hadn't  ha'  been  for  the 
thoughts  o'  that  five  pounds.  The  more  'e  thought 
of  it  the  more  unlikely  it  seemed  that  'is  wife  would 
blame  it  on  to  the  sweep,  and  one  night  he  took  the 
match-box  out  of  'is  pocket  and  shook  his  'ead  over 
it  till  Sam  felt  quite  sorry  for  'im. 

"Don't  take  up  your  troubles  afore  they  come," 
he  ses.  "Orsepittles  are  dangerous  places." 

Mr.  Goodman  cheered  up  a  bit  at  that,  but  he  got 
miserable  agin  the  next  night  because  'is  money  was 
getting  low  and  he  wanted  another  week  in  London. 

"  I've  got  seven  shillings  and  fourpence  and  two 
stamps  left,"  he  ses.  "Where  it's  all  gone  to  I  can't 
think." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  ses  Sam.  "I've 
got  a  pound  or  two  left  yet." 

"No,  I  ain't  going  to  be  a  burden  on  you,"  ses 
Mr.  Goodman,  "but  another  week  I  must  'ave,  so 

186 


Peter's  Pence 

I  must  get  the  money  somehow.  Peter  can't  spend 
much,  the  way  he  goes  on." 

Sam  gave  a  little  cough. 

"I'll  get  a  pound  or  two  out  of  'im,"  ses  Mr. 
Goodman. 

Sam  coughed  agin.  "Won't  he  think  it  rather 
funny  ?"  he  ses,  arter  a  bit. 

"Not  if  it's  managed  properly,"  ses  Mr.  Good- 
man, thinking  'ard.  "I'll  tell  you  'ow  we'll  do  it. 
To-morrow  morning,  while  we  are  eating  of  our 
breakfast,  you  ask  me  to  lend  you  a  pound  or 
two." 

Sam,  what  'ad  just  taken  up  'is  glass  for  a  drink, 
put  it  down  agin  and  stared  at  'im. 

"But  I  don't  want  no  money,"  he  ses;  "and, 
besides,  you  'aven't  got  any." 

"You  do  as  I  tell  you,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  "and 
when  you've  got  it,  you  hand  it  over  to  me,  see  ?  Ask 
me  to  lend  you  five  pounds." 

Sam  thought  as  'ow  the  whiskey  'ad  got  to  Mr. 
Goodman's  'ead  at  last.  'Owever,  to  pacify  'im  he 
promised  to  do  wot  'e  was  told,  and  next  morning, 
when  they  was  all  at  breakfast,  he  looks  over  and 
catches  Mr.  Goodman's  eye. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  might  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  a  favor 
of  you  ?"  he  ses. 

"Certainly,"  ses  Peter's  uncle,  "and  glad  I  shall 
187 


Peter's   Pence 

be  to  oblige  you.  There  is  no  man  I've  got  a  greater 
respect  for." 

"Thankee,"  ses  Sam.  "The  fact  is,  I've  run  a 
bit  short  owing  to  paying  a  man  some  money  I  owed 
'im.  If  you  could  lend  me  five  pounds,  I  couldn't 
thank  you  enough." 

Mr.  Goodman  put  down  'is  knife  and  fork  and 
wrinkled  up  'is  forehead. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  ses,  feeling  in  'is  pockets; 
"do  you  want  it  to-day  ?" 

"Yes;   I  should  like  it,"  ses  Sam. 

"It's  most  annoying,"  ses  Mr.  Goodman,  "but  I 
was  so  afraid  o'  pickpockets  that  I  didn't  bring  much 
away  with  me.  If  you  could  wait  till  the  day  arter 
to-morrow,  when  my  money  is  sent  to  me,  you  can 
'ave  ten  if  you  like." 

"You're  very  kind,"  ses  Sam,  "but  that  'ud  be  too 
late  for  me.  I  must  try  and  get  it  somewhere  else." 

Peter  and  Ginger  went  on  eating  their  breakfast, 
but  every  time  Peter  looked  up  he  caught  'is  uncle 
looking  at  'im  in  such  a  surprised  and  disappointed 
sort  o'  way  that  'e  didn't  like  the  look  of  it  at  all. 

"I  could  just  do  it  for  a  couple  o'  days,  Sam,"  he 
ses  at  last,  "but  it'll  leave  me  very  short." 

"That's  right,"  ses  his  uncle,  smiling.  "My 
nevvy,  Peter  Russet,  will  lend  it  to  you,  Mr.  Small, 
of  'is  own  free  will.  He  'as  offered  afore  he  was 

188 


189 


Peter's   Pence 

asked,  and  that's  the  proper  way  to  do  it,  in  my 
opinion." 

He  reached  acrost  the  table  and  shook  'ands  with 
Peter,  and  said  that  generosity  ran  in  their  family, 
and  something  seemed  to  tell  'im  as  Peter  wouldn't 
lose  by  it.  Everybody  seemed  pleased  with  each 
other,  and  arter  Ginger  Dick  and  Peter  'ad  gone  out 
Mr.  Goodman  took  the  five  pounds  off  of  old  Sam 
and  stowed  'em  away  very  careful  in  the  match-box. 

"It's  nice  to  'ave  money  agin,"  he  ses.  "There's 
enough  for  a  week's  enjoyment  here." 

"Yes,"  ses  Sam,  slow-like;  "but  wot  I  want  to 
know  is,  wot  about  the  day  arter  to-morrow,  when 
Peter  expects  'is  money?" 

Mr.  Goodman  patted  'im  on  the  shoulder.  "  Don't 
you  worry  about  Peter's  troubles,"  he  ses.  "I  know 
exactly  wot  to  do;  it's  all  planned  out.  Now  I'm 
going  to  'ave  a  lay  down  for  an  hour — I  didn't  get 
much  sleep  last  night — and  if  you'll  call  me  at  twelve 
o'clock  we'll  go  somewhere.  Knock  loud." 

He  patted  'im  on  the  shoulder  agin,  and  Sam,  arter 
fidgeting  about  a  bit,  went  out.  The  last  time  he 
ever  see  Peter's  uncle  he  was  laying  on  the  bed  with 
'is  eyes  shut,  smiling  in  his  sleep.  And  Peter  Russet 
didn't  see  Sam  for  eighteen  months. 


190 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FAMILY 


After  some  years  spent  in  long  voyages 


193 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

MR.  LETTS  had  left  his  ship  by  mutual 
arrangement,  and  the  whole  of  the  crew 
had  mustered  to  see  him  off  and  to  ex- 
press their  sense  of  relief  at  his  departure.  After 
some  years  spent  in  long  voyages,  he  had  fancied  a 
trip  on  a  coaster  as  a  change,  and,  the  schooner 
Curlew  having  no  use  for  a  ship's  carpenter,  had 
shipped  as  cook.  He  had  done  his  best,  and  the 
unpleasant  epithets  that  followed  him  along  the  quay 
at  Dunchurch  as  he  followed  in  the  wake  of  his  sea- 
chest  were  the  result.  Master  and  mate  nodded  in 
grim  appreciation  of  the  crew's  efforts. 

He  put  his  chest  up  at  a  seamen's  lodging-house, 
and,  by  no  means  perturbed  at  this  sudden  change 
in  his  fortunes,  sat  on  a  seat  overlooking  the  sea,  with 
a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  forming  plans  for  his 
future.  His  eyes  closed,  and  he  opened  them  with  a 
start  to  find  that  a  middle-aged  woman  of  pleasant 
but  careworn  appearance  had  taken  the  other  end  of 
the  bench. 

"Fine  day,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  lighting  another 
cigarette. 

193 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

The  woman  assented  and  sat  looking  over  the 
sea. 

"Ever  done  any  cooking?"  asked  Mr.  Letts, 
presently. 

"  Plenty,"  was  the  surprised  reply.     "Why  ?" 

"  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  how  long  you  would  boil 
a  bit  o'  beef,"  said  Mr.  Letts.  "Only  from  curiosity; 
I  should  never  ship  as  cook  again." 

He  narrated  his  experience  of  the  last  few  days, 
and,  finding  the  listener  sympathetic,  talked  at  some 
length  about  himself  and  his  voyages;  also  of  his 
plans  for  the  future. 

"I  lost  my  son  at  sea,"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
sigh.  "You  favor  him  rather." 

Mr.  Letts's  face  softened.  "Sorry,"  he  said. 
"Sorry  you  lost  him,  I  mean." 

"At  least,  I  suppose  he  would  have  been  like  you," 
said  the  other;  "but  it's  nine  years  ago  now.  He 
was  just  sixteen." 

Mr.  Letts — after  a  calculation — nodded.  "Just 
my  age,"  he  said.  "I  was  twenty-five  last  March." 

"Sailed  for  Melbourne,"  said  the  woman.  "My 
only  boy." 

Mr.  Letts  cleared  his  throat,  sympathetically. 

"His  father  died  a  week  after  he  sailed,"  continued 
the  other,  "and  three  months  afterwards  my  boy's 
ship  went  down.  Two  years  ago,  like  a  fool,  I  mar- 

194 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

ried  again.  I  don't  know  why  I'm  talking  to  you 
like  this.  I  suppose  it  is  because  you  remind  me  of 
him." 

"You  talk  away  as  much  as  you  like,"  said  Mr. 
Letts,  kindly.  "I've  got  nothing  to  do." 

He  lit  another  cigarette,  and,  sitting  in  an  attitude 
of  attention,  listened  to  a  recital  of  domestic  trouble 
that  made  him  congratulate  himself  upon  remaining 
single. 

"Since  I  married  Mr.  Green  I  can't  call  my  soul 
my  own,"  said  the  victim  of  matrimony  as  she  rose 
to  depart.  "  If  my  poor  boy  had  lived  things  would 
have  been  different.  His  father  left  the  house  and 
furniture  to  him,  and  that's  all  my  second  married  me 
for,  I'm  sure.  That  and  the  bit  o'  money  that  was 
left  to  me.  He's  selling  some  of  my  boy's  furniture 
at  this  very  moment.  That's  why  I  came  out;  I 
couldn't  bear  it." 

"P'r'aps  he'll  turn  up  after  all,"  said  Mr.  Letts. 
"Never  say  die." 

Mrs.  Green  shook  her  head. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  regarding  her — "I 
s'pose  you  don't  let  lodgings  for  a  night  or  two  ?" 

Mrs.  Green  shook  her  head  again. 

"It  don't  matter,"  said  the  young  man.  "Only  I 
would  sooner  stay  with  you  than  at  a  lodging-house. 
I've  taken  a  fancy  to  you.  I  say,  it  would  be  a  lark  if 

'95 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

you  did,  and  I  went  there  and  your  husband  thought 
I  was  your  son,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Green  caught  her  breath,  and  sitting  down 
again  took  his  arm  in  her  trembling  fingers. 

"Suppose,"  she  said,  unsteadily — "suppose  you 
came  round  and  pretended  to  be  my  son — pretended 
to  be  my  son,  and  stood  up  for  me  ?" 

Mr.  Letts  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  and  then 
began  to  laugh. 

"Nobody  would  know,"  continued  the  other, 
quickly.  "We  only  came  to  this  place  just  before  he 
sailed,  and  his  sister  was  only  ten  at  the  time.  She 
wouldn't  remember." 

Mr.  Letts  said  he  couldn't  think  of  it,  and  sat 
staring,  with  an  air  of  great  determination,  at  the 
sea.  Arguments  and  entreaties  left  him  unmoved, 
and  he  was  just  about  to  express  his  sorrow  for  her 
troubles  and  leave,  when  she  gave  a  sudden  start  and 
put  her  arm  through  his. 

"Here  comes  your  sister!"  she  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Letts  started  in  his  turn. 

"She  has  seen  me  holding  your  arm,"  continued 
Mrs.  Green,  in  a  tense  whisper.  "It's  the  only  way 
I  can  explain  it.  Mind,  your  name  is  Jack  Foster  and 
hers  is  Betty." 

Mr.  Letts  gazed  at  her  in  consternation,  and  then, 
raising  his  eyes,  regarded  with  much  approval  the 

196 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

girl  who  was  approaching.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  she  could  be  Mrs.  Green's  daughter,  and  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  he  nearly  said  so. 

"Betty,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  in  a  voice  to  which 
nervousness  had  imparted  almost  the  correct  note — 
"Betty,  this  is  your  brother  Jack!" 

Mr.  Letts  rose  sheepishly,  and  then  to  his  great 
amazement  a  pair  of  strong  young  arms  were  flung 
round  his  neck,  and  a  pair  of  warm  lips — after  but 
slight  trouble — found  his.  Then  and  there  Mr. 
Letts's  mind  was  made  up. 

"Oh,  Jack!"  said  Miss  Foster,  and  began  to  cry 
softly. 

"Oh,  Jack!"  said  Mrs.  Green,  and,  moved  by 
thoughts,  perhaps,  of  what  might  have  been,  began 
to  cry  too. 

"There,  there!"  said  Mr.  Letts. 

He  drew  Miss  Foster  to  the  seat,  and,  sitting  be- 
tween them,  sat  with  an  arm  round  each.  There  was 
nothing  in  sight  but  a  sail  or  two  in  the  far  distance, 
and  he  allowed  Miss  Foster's  head  to  lie  upon  his 
shoulder  undisturbed.  An  only  child,  and  an  orphan, 
he  felt  for  the  first  time  the  blessing  of  a  sister's 
love. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  home  before?"  mur- 
mured the  girl. 

Mr.  Letts  started  and  squinted  reproachfully  at  the 
197 


198 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

top  of  her  hat.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  Mrs. 
Green  in  search  of  the  required  information. 

"He  was  shipwrecked,"  said  Mrs.  Green. 

"I  was  shipwrecked,"  repeated  Mr.  Letts,  nodding. 

"And  had  brain-fever  after  it  through  being  in  the 
water  so  long,  and  lost  his  memory,"  continued  Mrs. 
Green. 

"It's  wonderful  what  water  will  do — salt  water," 
said  Mr.  Letts,  in  confirmation. 

Miss  Foster  sighed,  and,  raising  the  hand  which 
was  round  her  waist,  bent  her  head  and  kissed  it. 
Mr.  Letts  colored,  and  squeezed  her  convulsively. 

Assisted  by  Mrs.  Green  he  became  reminiscent, 
and,  in  a  low  voice,  narrated  such  incidents  of  his 
career  as  had  escaped  the  assaults  of  the  brain-fever. 
That  his  head  was  not  permanently  injured  was 
proved  by  the  perfect  manner  in  which  he  remem- 
bered incidents  of  his  childhood  narrated  by  his  newly 
found  mother  and  sister.  He  even  volunteered  one 
or  two  himself  which  had  happened  when  the  latter 
was  a  year  or  two  old. 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  in  a  somewhat 
trembling  voice,  "we  must  go  and  tell  your  step- 
father." 

Mr.  Letts  responded,  but  without  briskness,  and, 
with  such  moral  support  as  an  arm  of  each  could  af- 
ford, walked  slowly  back.  Arrived  at  a  road  of  sub- 

199 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

stantial  cottages  at  the  back  of  the  town,  Mrs.  Green 
gasped,  and,  coming  to  a  standstill,  nodded  at  a  van 
that  stood  half-way  up  the  road. 

"There  it  is,"  she  exclaimed. 

"What?"  demanded  Mr.  Letts. 

"The  furniture  I  told  you  about,"  said  Mrs. 
Green.  "The  furniture  that  your  poor  father  thought 
such  a  lot  of,  because  it  used  to  belong  to  his  grand- 
father. He's  selling  it  to  Simpson,  though  I  begged 
and  prayed  him  not  to." 

Mr.  Letts  encouraged  himself  with  a  deep  cough. 
"My  furniture  ?"  he  demanded. 

Mrs.  Green  took  courage.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  hope- 
fully; "your  father  left  it  to  you." 

Mr.  Letts,  carrying  his  head  very  erect,  took  a 
firmer  grip  of  their  arms  and  gazed  steadily  at  a 
disagreeable-looking  man  who  was  eying  them  in 
some  astonishment  from  the  doorway.  With  arms 
still  linked  they  found  the  narrow  gateway  somewhat 
difficult,  but  they  negotiated  it  by  a  turning  move- 
ment, and,  standing  in  the  front  garden,  waited  while 
Mrs.  Green  tried  to  find  her  voice. 

"Jack,"  she  said  at  last,  "this  is  your  stepfather." 

Mr.  Letts,  in  some  difficulty  as  to  the  etiquette  on 
such  occasions,  released  his  right  arm  and  extended 
his  hand. 

"Good-evening,  stepfather,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

200 


A  disagreeable-looking  man  was  eying  them  in  some 
astonishment  from  the  doorway. 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

Mr.  Green  drew  back  a  little  and  regarded  him 
unfavorably. 

"We — we  thought  you  was  drowned,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"I  was  nearly,"  said  Mr.  Letts. 

"We  all  thought  so,"  pursued  Mr.  Green,  grudg- 
ingly. "Everybody  thought  so." 

He  stood  aside,  as  a  short,  hot-faced  man,  with  a 
small  bureau  clasped  in  his  arms  and  supported  on 
his  knees,  emerged  from  the  house  and  staggered 
towards  the  gate.  Mr.  Letts  reflected. 

"Halloa!"  he  said,  suddenly.  "Why,  are  you 
moving,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Green  sniffed  sadly  and  shook  her  head. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  with  an  admirable  stare, 
"what's  that  chap  doing  with  my  furniture  ?" 

"Eh  ?"  spluttered  Mr.  Green.     "What  ?" 

"I  say,  what's  he  doing  with  my  furniture?"  re- 
peated Mr.  Letts,  sternly. 

Mr.  Green  waved  his  arm.  "That's  all  right,"  he 
said,  conclusively;  "he's  bought  it.  Your  mother 
knows." 

"But  it  ain't  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Letts.  "Here! 
bring  that  back,  and  those  chairs  too." 

The  dealer,  who  had  just  placed  the  bureau  on  the 
tail-board  of  the  van,  came  back  wiping  his  brow  with 
his  sleeve. 

202 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"  Wot's  the  little  game  ?"  he  demanded. 

Mr.  Letts  left  the  answer  to  Mr.  Green,  and  going 
to  the  van  took  up  the  bureau  and  walked  back 
to  the  house  with  it.  Mr.  Green  and  the  dealer 
parted  a  little  at  his  approach,  and  after  widening  the 
parting  with  the  bureau  he  placed  it  in  the  front  room 
while  he  went  back  for  the  chairs.  He  came  back 
with  three  of  them,  and  was,  not  without  reason, 
called  a  porcupine  by  the  indignant  dealer. 

He  was  relieved  to  find,  after  Mr.  Simpson  had 
taken  his  departure,  that  Mr.  Green  was  in  no  mood 
for  catechising  him,  and  had  evidently  accepted  the 
story  of  his  escape  and  return  as  a  particularly  dis- 
agreeable fact.  So  disagreeable  that  the  less  he 
heard  of  it  the  better. 

"  I  hope  you've  not  come  home  after  all  these  years 
to  make  things  unpleasant?"  he  remarked  presently, 
as  they  sat  at  tea. 

"  I  couldn't  be  unpleasant  if  I  tried,"  said  Mr.  Letts. 

"We've  been  very  happy  and  comfortable  here — 
me  and  your  mother  and  sister,"  continued  Mr. 
Green.  "Haven't  we,  Emily  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  his  wife,  with  nervous  quickness. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  be  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Green. 
"  It's  my  wish  that  you  should  make  yourself  quite 
comfortable  here — till  you  go  to  sea  again." 

"Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Letts;  "but  I  don't  think  I 
203 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

shall  go  to  sea  any  more.  Ship's  carpenter  is  my 
trade,  and  I've  been  told  more  than  once  that  I 
should  do  better  ashore.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to 
lose  mother  and  Betty  again.*' 

He  placed  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist,  and, 
drawing  her  head  on  to  his  shoulder,  met  with  a 
blank  stare  the  troubled  gaze  of  Mrs.  Green. 

"I'm  told  there's  wonderful  openings  for  carpen- 
ters in  Australia,"  said  Mr.  Green,  trying  to  speak  in 
level  tones.  "Wonderful!  A  good  carpenter  can 
make  a  fortune  there  in  ten  years,  so  I'm  told." 

Mr.  Letts,  with  a  slight  wink  at  Mrs.  Green  and 
a  reassuring  squeeze  wiui  his  left  arm,  turned  an 
attentive  ear. 

"O'  course,  there's  a  difficulty,"  he  said,  slowly,  as 
Mr.  Green  finished  a  vivid  picture  of  the  joys  of 
carpentering  in  Australia. 

"Difficulty?"  said  the  other. 

"Money  to  start  with,"  explained  Mr.  Letts. 
"  It's  no  good  starting  without  money.  I  wonder  how 
much  this  house  and  furniture  would  fetch  ?  Is  it  all 
mine,  mother  ?" 

"M-m-most  of  it,"  stammered  Mrs.  Green,  gazing 
in  a  fascinated  fashion  at  the  contorted  visage  of  her 
husband. 

"All  except  a  chair  in  the  kitchen  and  three  stair- 
rods,"  said  Betty. 

204 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"Speak  when  you're  spoke  to,  miss!"  snarled  her 
stepfather.  "When  we  married  we  mixed  our  fur- 
niture up  together — mixed  it  up  so  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  tell  which  is  which.  Nobody 
could." 

"For  the  matter  o'  that,  you  could  have  all  the 
kitchen  chairs  and  all  the  stair-rods,"  said  Mr.  Letts, 
generously.  "  However,  I  don't  want  to  do  anything 
in  a  hurry,  and  I  shouldn't  dream  of  going  to  Aus- 
tralia without  Betty.  It  rests  with  her." 

"She's  going  to  be  married,"  said  Mr.  Green, 
hastily;  "and  if  she  wasn't  she  wouldn't  turn  her 
poor,  ailing  mother  out  of  house  and  home,  that  I'm 
certain  of.  She's  not  that  sort.  We've  had  a  word 
or  two  at  times — me  and  her — but  I  know  a  good 
daughter  when  I  see  one." 

"Married  ?"  echoed  Mr.  Letts,  as  his  left  arm  re- 
laxed its  pressure.  "Who  to  ?" 

"Young  fellow  o'  the  name  of  Henry  Widden," 
replied  Mr.  Green,  "a  very  steady  young  fellow;  a 
great  friend  of  mine." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Letts,  blankly. 

"I'd  got  an  idea,  which  I've  been  keeping  as  a 
little  surprise,"  continued  Mr.  Green,  speaking  very 
rapidly,  "of  them  living  here  with  us,  and  saving 
house-rent  and  furniture." 

Mr.  Letts  surveyed  him  with  a  dejected  eye. 
205 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"  It  would  be  a  fine  start  for  them,"  continued  the 
benevolent  Mr.  Green. 

Mr.  Letts,  by  a  strong  effort,  regained  his  com- 
posure. 

"I  must  have  a  look  at  him  first,"  he  said,  briskly. 
"He  mightn't  meet  with  my  approval." 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Green,  starting.  "Why,  if 
Betty- 

"I  must  think  it  over,"  interrupted  Mr.  Letts, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  Betty  is  only  nineteen, 
and,  as  head  of  the  family,  I  don't  think  she  can 
marry  without  my  consent.  I'm  not  sure,  but  I 
don't  think  so.  Anyway,  if  she  does,  I  won't  have 
her  husband  here  sitting  in  my  chairs,  eating  off  my 
tables,  sleeping  in  my  beds,  wearing  out  my  stair- 
rods,  helping  himself 

"Stow  it,"  said  Miss  Foster,  calmly. 

Mr.  Letts  started,  and  lost  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course. "I  must  have  a  look  at  him,"  he  concluded, 
lamely;  "he  may  be  all  right,  but  then,  again,  he 
mightn't." 

He  finished  his  tea  almost  in  silence,  and,  the  meal 
over,  emphasized  his  position  as  head  of  the  family 
by  taking  the  easy-chair,  a  piece  of  furniture  sacred 
to  Mr.  Green,  and  subjecting  that  injured  man  to  a 
catechism  which  strained  his  powers  of  endurance 
almost  to  breaking-point. 

206 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  make  any  change  at  present,"  said 
Mr.  Letts,  when  the  task  was  finished.  "There's 
plenty  of  room  here  for  us  all,  and,  so  long  as  you  and 
me  agree,  things  can  go  on  as  they  are.  To-morrow 
morning  I  shall  go  out  and  look  for  a  job." 

He  found  a  temporary  one  almost  at  once,  and, 
determined  to  make  a  favorable  impression,  worked 
hard  all  day.  He  came  home  tired  and  dirty,  and 
was  about  to  go  straight  to  the  wash-house  to  make 
his  toilet  when  Mr.  Green  called  him  in. 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Widden,"  he  said,  with  a  satisfied 
air,  as  he  pointed  to  a  slight,  fair  young  man  with  a 
well-trimmed  moustache. 

Mr.  Letts  shook  hands. 

"Fine  day,"  said  Mr.  Widden. 

"Beautiful,"  said  the  other.  "I'll  come  in  and 
have  a  talk  about  it  when  I've  had  a  wash." 

"  Me  and  Miss  Foster  are  going  out  for  a  bit  of  a 
stroll,"  said  Mr.  Widden. 

"Quite  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Letts.  "Much  more 
healthy  than  staying  indoors  all  the  evening.  If  you 
just  wait  while  I  have  a  wash  and  a  bit  o'  something 
to  eat  I'll  come  with  you." 

"Co-come  with  us!"  said  Mr.  Widden,  after  an 
astonished  pause. 

Mr.  Letts  nodded.  "You  see,  I  don't  know  you 
yet,"  he  explained,  "and  as  head  of  the  family  I  want 

207 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

to  see  how  you  behave  yourself.  Properly  speaking, 
my  consent  ought  to  have  been  asked  before  you 
walked  out  with  her;  still,  as  everybody  thought  I  was 
drowned,  I'll  say  no  more  about  it." 

"Mr.  Green  knows  all  about  me,"  said  Mr.  Wid- 
den,  rebelliously. 

"  It's  nothing  to  do  with  him,"  declared  Mr.  Letts. 
"And,  besides,  he's  not  what  I  should  call  a  judge  of 
character.  I  dare  say  you  are  all  right,  but  I'm  going 
to  see  for  myself.  You  go  on  in  the  ordinary  way 
with  your  love-making,  without  taking  any  notice  of 
me.  Try  and  forget  I'm  watching  you.  Be  as 
natural  as  you  can  be,  and  if  you  do  anything  I  don't 
like  I'll  soon  tell  you  of  it." 

The  bewildered  Mr.  Widden  turned,  but,  reading 
no  hope  of  assistance  in  the  infuriated  eyes  of  Mr. 
Green,  appealed  in  despair  to  Betty. 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said.     "Why  should  I  ?" 

Mr.  Widden  could  have  supplied  her  with  many 
reasons,  but  he  refrained,  and  sat  in  sulky  silence 
while  Mr.  Letts  got  ready.  From  his  point  of  view 
the  experiment  was  by  no  means  a  success,  his  efforts 
to  be  natural  being  met  with  amazed  glances  from 
Mr.  Letts  and  disdainful  requests  from  Miss  Foster 
to  go  home  if  he  couldn't  behave  himself.  When  he 
relapsed  into  moody  silence  Mr.  Letts  cleared  his 
throat  and  spoke. 

208 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"There's  no  need  to  be  like  a  monkey-on-a-stick, 
and  at  the  same  time  there's  no  need  to  be  sulky,"  he 
pointed  out;  "there's  a  happy  medium." 

"Like  you,  I  s'pose  ?"  said  the  frantic  suitor. 

"Like  me,"  said  the  other,  gravely.  "Now,  you 
watch;  fall  in  behind  and  watch." 

He  drew  Miss  Foster's  arm  through  his  and,  lean- 
ing towards  her  with  tender  deference,  began  a  long 
conversation.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  Mr.  Wid- 
den  intimated  that  he  thought  he  had  learned  enough 
to  go  on  with. 

"Ah!  that's  only  your  conceit,"  said  Mr.  Letts 
over  his  shoulder.  "I  was  afraid  you  was  conceited." 

He  turned  to  Miss  Foster  again,  and  Mr.  Widden, 
with  a  despairing  gesture,  abandoned  himself  to 
gloom.  He  made  no  further  interruptions,  but  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  walk  hesitated  so  long  on  the 
door-step  that  Mr.  Letts  had  to  take  the  initiative. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  shaking  hands.  "Come 
round  to-morrow  night  and  I'll  give  you  another 
lesson.  You're  a  slow  learner,  that's  what  you  are; 
a  slow  learner." 

He  gave  Mr.  Widden  a  lesson  on  the  following 
evening,  but  cautioned  him  sternly  against  imitating 
the  display  of  brotherly  fondness  of  which,  in  a  se- 
cluded lane,  he  had  been  a  wide-eyed  observer. 

"When  you've  known  her  as  long  as  I  have — 
209 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

nineteen  years,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  as  the  other  protested, 
"things'll  be  a  bit  different.  I  might  not  be  here, 
for  one  thing." 

By  exercise  of  great  self-control  Mr.  Widden 
checked  the  obvious  retort  and  walked  doggedly  in 
the  rear  of  Miss  Foster.  Then,  hardly  able  to  believe 
his  ears,  he  heard  her  say  something  to  Mr.  Letts. 

"Eh?"  said  that  gentleman,  in  amazed  accents. 

"You  fall  behind,"  said  Miss  Foster. 

"That — that's  not  the  way  to  talk  to  the  head  of 
the  family,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  feebly. 

"  It's  the  way  I  talk  to  him,"  rejoined  the  girl. 

It  was  a  position  for  which  Mr.  Letts  was  totally 
unprepared,  and  the  satisfied  smile  of  Mr.  Widden 
as  he  took  the  vacant  place  by  no  means  improved 
matters.  In  a  state  of  considerable  dismay  Mr. 
Letts  dropped  farther  and  farther  behind  until, 
looking  up,  he  saw  Miss  Foster,  attended  by  her 
restive  escort,  quietly  waiting  for  him.  An  odd  look 
in  her  eyes  as  they  met  his  gave  him  food  for  thought 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

At  the  end  of  what  Mr.  Letts  was  pleased  to  term 
a  month's  trial,  Mr.  Widden  was  still  unable  to  satisfy 
him  as  to  his  fitness  for  the  position  of  brother-in- 
law.  In  a  spirit  of  gloom  he  made  suggestions  of  a 
mutinous  nature  to  Mr.  Green,  but  that  gentleman, 
who  had  returned  one  day  pale  and  furious,  but 

210 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

tamed,  from  an  interview  that  related  to  his  treat- 
ment of  his  wife,  held  out  no  hopes  of  assistance. 

"I  wash  my  hands  of  him,"  he  said,  bitterly. 
"You  stick  to  it;  that's  all  you  can  do." 

"They  lost  me  last  night,"  said  the  unfortunate. 
"  I  stayed  behind  just  to  take  a  stone  out  of  my  shoe, 
and  the  earth  seemed  to  swallow  them  up.  He's  so 
strong.  That's  the  worst  of  it." 

"Strong?"  said  Mr.  Green. 

Mr.  Widden  nodded.  "Tuesday  evening  he 
showed  her  how  he  upset  a  man  once  and  stood  him 
on  his  head,"  he  said,  irritably.  "I  was  what  he 
showed  her  with." 

"Stick  to  it!"  counselled  Mr.  Green  again.  "A 
brother  and  sister  are  bound  to  get  tired  of  each  other 
before  long;  it's  nature." 

Mr.  Widden  sighed  and  obeyed.  But  brother  and 
sister  showed  no  signs  of  tiring  of  each  other's  com- 
pany, while  they  displayed  unmistakable  signs  of 
weariness  with  his.  And  three  weeks  later  Mr. 
Letts,  in  a  few  well-chosen  words,  kindly  but  firmly 
dismissed  him. 

"  I  should  never  give  my  consent,"  he  said,  gravely, 
"so  it's  only  wasting  your  time.  You  run  off  and 
play." 

Mr.  Widden  ran  off  to  Mr.  Green,  but  before  he 
could  get  a  word  out  discovered  that  something  un- 

211 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

usual  had  happened.  Mrs.  Green,  a  picture  of  dis- 
tress, sat  at  one  end  of  the  room  with  a  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes;  Mr.  Green,  in  a  condition  compounded 
of  joy  and  rage,  was  striding  violently  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"He's  a  fraud!"  he  shouted.  "A  fraud!  I've 
had  my  suspicions  for  some  time,  and  this  evening  I 
got  it  out  of  her." 

Mr.  Widden  stared  in  amazement. 

"I  got  it  out  of  her,"  repeated  Mr.  Green,  pointing 
at  the  trembling  woman.  "He's  no  more  her  son 
than  what  you  are." 

"What?"  said  the  amazed  listener. 

"She's  been  deceiving  me,"  said  Mr.  Green,  with 
a  scowl,  "but  I  don't  think  she'll  do  it  again  in  a 
hurry.  You  stay  here,"  he  shouted,  as  his  wife  rose 
to  leave  the  room.  "  I  want  you  to  be  here  when  he 
comes  in." 

Mrs.  Green  stayed,  and  the  other  two,  heedless  of 
her  presence,  discussed  the  situation  until  the  front 
door  was  heard  to  open,  and  Mr.  Letts  and  Betty 
came  into  the  room.  With  a  little  cry  the  girl  ran 
to  her  mother. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

"She's  lost  another  son,"  said  Mr.  Green,  with  a 
ferocious  sneer — "a  flash,  bullying,  ugly  chap  of  the 
name  o'  Letts." 

212 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

"Halloa!"  said  Mr.  Letts,  starting. 

"A  chap  she  picked  up  out  of  the  street,  and  tried 
to  pass  off  on  me  as  her  son,"  continued  Mr.  Green, 
raising  his  voice.  "  She  ain't  heard  the  end  of  it  yet, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Mr.  Letts  fidgeted.  "You  leave  her  alone,"  he 
said,  mildly.  "It's  true  I'm  not  her  son,  but  it  don't 
matter,  because  I've  been  to  see  a  lawyer  about  her, 
and  he  told  me  that  this  house  and  half  the  furniture 
belongs  by  law  to  Betty.  It's  got  nothing  to  do  with 
you." 

"In-deed!"  said  Mr.  Green.  "Now  you  take 
yourself  off  before  I  put  the  police  on  to  you.  Take 
your  face  off  these  premises." 

Mr.  Letts,  scratching  his  head,  looked  vaguely 
round  the  room. 

"Go  on!"  vociferated  Mr.  Green.  "Or  will  you 
have  the  police  to  put  you  out  ?" 

Mr.  Letts  cleared  his  throat  and  moved  towards 
the  door.  "You  stick  up  for  your  rights,  my  girl," 
he  said,  turning  to  Betty.  "  If  he  don't  treat  your 
mother  well,  give  him  back  his  kitchen  chair  and  his 
three  stair-rods  and  pack  him  off." 

"Henry,"  said  Mr.  Green,  with  dangerous  calm, 
"go  and  fetch  a  policeman." 

"I'm  going,"  said  Mr.  Letts,  hastily.  "Good-by, 
Betty;  good-by,  mother.  I  sha'n't  be  long.  I'm  only 

213 


214 


The  Head  of  the  Family 

going  as  far  as  the  post-office.  And  that  reminds 
me.  I've  been  talking  so  much  that  I  quite  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  Betty  and  me  were  married  yesterday 
morning." 

He  nodded  pleasantly  at  the  stupefied  Mr.  Green, 
and,  turning  to  Mr.  Widden,  gave  him  a  friendly  dig 
in  the  ribs  with  his  finger. 

"What's  mine  is  Betty's,"  he  said,  in  a  clear  voice, 
"  and  what's  Betty's  is  MINE  !  D'ye  understand,  step- 
father?" 

He  stepped  over  to  Mrs.  Green,  and  putting  a 
strong  arm  around  her  raised  her  to  her  feet.  "And 
what's  mine  is  mother's,"  he  concluded,  and,  helping 
her  across  the  room,  placed  her  in  the  best  arm-chair. 


215 


PRIZE  MONEY 


r, 


The  sign  of  the  Cauliflower  was  stiff  with  snow. 


218 


Prize  Money 


THE  old  man  stood  by  the  window,  gazing  at 
the  frozen  fields  beyond.     The  sign  of  the 
Cauliflower  was  stiff  with  snow,  and  the 
breath  of  a  pair  of  waiting  horses  in  a  wagon  be- 
neath ascended  in  clouds  of  steam. 

"Amusements?"  he  said  slowly,  as  he  came  back 
with  a  shiver  and,  resuming  his  seat  by  the  tap-room 
fire,  looked  at  the  wayfarer  who  had  been  idly  ques- 
tioning him.  "Claybury  men  don't  have  much  time 
for  amusements.  The  last  one  I  can  call  to  mind  was 
Bill  Chambers  being  nailed  up  in  a  pig-sty  he  was 
cleaning  out,  but  there  was  such  a  fuss  made  over 
that — by  Bill — that  it  sort  o'  disheartened  people." 

He  got  up  again  restlessly,  and,  walking  round  the 
table,  gazed  long  and  hard  into  three  or  four  mugs. 

"  Sometimes  a  little  gets  left  in  them,"  he  explained, 
meeting  the  stranger's  inquiring  glance.  The  latter 
started,  and,  knocking  on  the  table  with  the  handle 
of  his  knife,  explained  that  he  had  been  informed  by 
a  man  outside  that  his  companion  was  the  bitterest 
teetotaller  in  Claybury. 

219 


Prize   Money 

"That's  one  o'  Bob  Pretty's  larks,"  said  the  old 
man,  flushing.  "I  see  you  talking  to  'im,  and  I 
thought  as  'ow  he  warn't  up  to  no  good.  Biggest 
rascal  in  Claybury,  he  is.  I've  said  so  afore,  and  I'll 
say  so  agin." 

He  bowed  to  the  donor  and  buried  his  old  face  in 
the  mug. 

"A  poacher!"  he  said,  taking  breath.  "A  thief!" 
he  continued,  after  another  draught.  "I  wonder 
whether  Smith  spilt  any  of  this  a-carrying  of  it  in  ?" 

He  put  down  the  empty  mug  and  made  a  careful 
examination  of  the  floor,  until  a  musical  rapping  on 
the  table  brought  the  landlord  into  the  room  again. 

"My  best  respects,"  he  said,  gratefully,  as  he 
placed  the  mug  on  the  settle  by  his  side  and  slowly 
filled  a  long  clay  pipe.  Next  time  you  see  Bob 
Pretty  ask  'im  wot  happened  to  the  prize  hamper. 
He's  done  a  good  many  things  has  Bob,  but  it'll  be 
a  long  time  afore  Claybury  men'll  look  over  that. 

It  was  Henery  Walker's  idea.  Henery  'ad  been 
away  to  see  an  uncle  of  'is  wife's  wot  had  money  and 
nobody  to  leave  it  to — leastways,  so  Henery  thought 
when  he  wasted  his  money  going  over  to  see  'inl- 
and he  came  back  full  of  the  idea,  which  he  'ad 
picked  up  from  the  old  man. 

"We  each  pay  twopence  a  week  till  Christmas," 
he  ses,  "and  we  buy  a  hamper  with  a  goose  or  a 

220 


Prize   Money 

turkey  in  it,  and  bottles  o'  rum  and  whiskey  and 
gin,  as  far  as  the  money'll  go,  and  then  we  all  draw 
lots  for  it,  and  the  one  that  wins  has  it." 

It  took  a  lot  of  explaining  to  some  of  'em,  but 
Smith,  the  landlord,  helped  Henery,  and  in  less  than 
four  days  twenty-three  men  had  paid  their  tuppences 
to  Henery,  who  'ad  been  made  the  seckitary,  and 
told  him  to  hand  them  over  to  Smith  in  case  he  lost 
his  memory. 

Bob  Pretty  joined  one  arternoon  on  the  quiet,  and 
more  than  one  of  'em  talked  of  'aving  their  money 
back,  but,  arter  Smith  'ad  explained  as  'ow  he  would 
see  fair  play,  they  thought  better  of  it. 

"He'll  'ave  the  same  chance  as  all  of  you,"  he  ses. 
"No  more  and  no  less." 

"I'd  feel  more  easy  in  my  mind,  though,  if'e 
wasn't  in  it,"  ses  Bill  Chambers,  staring  at  Bob.  "I 
never  knew  'im  to  lose  anything  yet." 

"You  don't  know  everything,  Bill,"  ses  Bob, 
shaking  his  'ead.  "You  don't  know  me;  else  you 
wouldn't  talk  like  that.  I've  never  been  caught  doing 
wrong  yet,  and  I  'ope  I  never  shall." 

"It's  all  right,  Bill,"  ses  George  Kettle.  "Mr. 
Smith'll  see  fair,  and  I'd  sooner  win  Bob  Pretty's 
money  than  anybody's." 

"I  'ope  you  will,  mate,"  ses  Bob;  "that's  what  I 
joined  for." 

221 


Prize   Money 

"Bob's  money  is  as  good  as  anybody  else's,"  ses 
George  Kettle,  looking  round  at  the  others.  "It 
don't  signify  to  me  where  he  got  it  from." 

"Ah,  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,George," 
ses  Bob  Pretty.  "  I've  thought  more  than  once  that 
you  'ad  them  ideas." 

He  drank  up  his  beer  and  went  off  'ome,  shaking 
his  'ead,  and,  arter  three  or  four  of 'em  'ad  explained 
to  George  Kettle  wot  he  meant,  George  went  off 
'ome,  too. 

The  week  afore  Christmas,  Smith,  the  landlord, 
said  as  'ow  he  'ad  got  enough  money,  and  three  days 
arter  we  all  came  up  'ere  to  see  the  prize  drawn. 
It  was  one  o*  the  biggest  hampers  Smith  could  get; 
and  there  was  a  fine,  large  turkey  in  it,  a  large  goose, 
three  pounds  o'  pork  sausages,  a  bottle  o'  whiskey, 
a  bottle  o'  rum,  a  bottle  o'  brandy,  a  bottle  o'  gin, 
and  two  bottles  o'  wine.  The  hamper  was  all  deco- 
rated with  holly,  and  a  little  flag  was  stuck  in  the  top. 

On'y  men  as  belonged  was  allowed  to  feel  the 
turkey  and  the  goose,  and  arter  a  time  Smith  said 
as  'ow  p'r'aps  they'd  better  leave  off,  and  'e  put  all 
the  things  back  in  the  hamper  and  fastened  up  the 
lid. 

"How  are  we  going  to  draw  the  lottery  ?"  ses  John 
Biggs,  the  blacksmith. 

"There'll    be    twenty-three    bits   o'    paper,"    ses 

222 


Prize   Money 

Smith,  "and  they'll  be  numbered  from  one  to 
twenty-three.  Then  they'll  be  twisted  up  all  the 
same  shape  and  put  in  this  'ere  paper  bag,  which  I 
shall  'old  as  each  man  draws.  The  chap  that  draws 
the  paper  with  the  figger  V  on  it  wins." 

He  tore  up  twenty-three  bits  o'  paper  all  about  the 
same  size,  and  then  with  a  black-lead  pencil  'e  put 
the  numbers  on,  while  everybody  leaned  over  'im  to 
see  fair  play.  Then  he  twisted  every  bit  o'  paper  up 
and  held  them  in  his  'and. 

"Is  that  satisfactory  ?"  he  ses. 

"Couldn't  be  fairer,"  ses  Bill  Chambers. 

"Mind,"  ses  Smith,  putting  them  into  a  tall  paper 
bag  that  had  'ad  sugar  in  it  and  shaking  them  up, 
"Number  I  wins  the  prize.  Who's  going  to  draw 
fust?" 

All  of  'em  hung  back  and  looked  at  each  other; 
they  all  seemed  to  think  they'd  'ave  a  better  chance 
when  there  wasn't  so  many  numbers  left  in  the  bag. 

"Come  on,"  ses  Smith,  the  landlord.  "Some- 
body must  be  fust." 

"Go  on,  George  Kettle,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "You're 
sure  to  win.  I  'ad  a  dream  you  did." 

"Go  on  yourself,"  ses  George. 

"I  never  'ave  no  luck,"  ses  Bob;  "but  if  Henery 
Walker  will  draw  fust,  I'll  draw  second.  Somebody 
must  begin." 

223 


Prize   Money 

"O*  course  they  must,"  ses  Henery,  "and  if  you're 
so  anxious  why  don't  you  'ave  fust  try  ?" 

Bob  Pretty  tried  to  laugh  it  off,  but  they  wouldn't 
'ave  it,  and  at  last  he  takes  out  a  pocket-'andkerchief 
and  offers  it  to  Smith,  the  landlord. 

"All  right,  I'll  go  fust  if  you'll  blindfold  me,"  he  ses. 

"There  ain't  no  need  for  that,  Bob,"  ses  Mr. 
Smith.  "You  can't  see  in  the  bag,  and  even  if  you 
could  it  wouldn't  help  you." 

"Never  mind;  you  blindfold  me,"  ses  Bob;  "it'll 
set  a  good  example  to  the  others." 

Smith  did  it  at  last,  and  when  Bob  Pretty  put  his 
'and  in  the  bag  and  pulled  out  a  paper  you  might  ha* 
heard  a  pin  drop. 

"Open  it  and  see  what  number  it  is,  Mr.  Smith," 
ses  Bob  Pretty.  "Twenty-three,  I  expect;  I  never 
'ave  no  luck." 

Smith  rolled  out  the  paper,  and  then  'e  turned  pale 
and  'is  eyes  seemed  to  stick  right  out  of  his  'ead. 

"He's  won  it!"  he  ses,  in  a  choky  voice.  "It's 
Number  i.  Bob  Pretty  'as  won  the  prize." 

You  never  'card  such  a  noise  in  this  'ere  public- 
'ouse  afore  or  since;  everybody  shouting  their  'ardest, 
and  Bill  Chambers  stamping  up  and  down  the  room 
as  if  he'd  gone  right  out  of  his  mind. 

"Silence!"  ses  Mr.  Smith,  at  last.  "Silence! 
How  dare  you  make  that  noise  in  my  'ouse,  giving  it 

224 


225 


Prize   Money 

a  bad  name  ?  Bob  Pretty  'as  won  it  fair  and  square. 
Nothing  could  ha*  been  fairer.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  o'  yourselves." 

Bob  Pretty  wouldn't  believe  it  at  fust.  He  said 
that  Smith  was  making  game  of  'im,  and,  when 
Smith  held  the  paper  under  'is  nose,  he  kept  the 
handkerchief  on  his  eyes  and  wouldn't  look  at  it. 

"I've  seen  you  afore  to-day,"  he  says,  nodding 
his  'ead.  "I  like  a  joke  as  well  as  anybody,  but  it 
ain't  fair  to  try  and  make  fun  of  a  pore,  'ard-working 
man  like  that." 

I  never  see  a  man  so  astonished  in  my  life  as  Bob 
Pretty  was,  when  'e  found  out  it  was  really  true.  He 
seemed  fair  'mazed-like,  and  stood  there  scratching 
his  'ead,  as  if  he  didn't  know  where  'e  was.  He  come 
round  at  last,  arter  a  pint  o*  beer  that  Smith  'ad 
stood  'im,  and  then  he  made  a  little  speech,  thanking 
Smith  for  the  fair  way  he  'ad  acted,  and  took  up  the 
hamper. 

1  'Strewth,  it  is  heavy,"  he  ses,  getting  it  up  on  his 
back.     "Well,  so  long,  mates." 

"Ain't  you — ain't  you  going  to  stand  us  a  drink 
out  o'  one  o'  them  bottles?"  ses  Peter  Gubbins,  as 
Bob  got  to  the  door. 

Bob  Pretty  went  out  as  if  he  didn't  'ear;  then  he 
stopped,  sudden-like,  and  turned  round  and  put  his 
'ead  in  at  the  door  agin,  and  stood  looking  at  'em. 

226 


Prize   Money 

"No,  mates,"  he  ses,  at  last,  "and  I  wonder  at  you 
for  asking,  arter  what  you've  all  said  about  me.  I'm 
a  pore  man,  but  I've  got  my  feelings.  I  drawed  fust 
becos  nobody  else  would,  and  all  the  thanks  I  get  for 
it  is  to  be  called  a  thief." 

He  went  off  down  the  road,  and  by  and  by  Bill 
Chambers,  wot  'ad  been  sitting  staring  straight  in 
front  of  'im,  got  up  and  went  to  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  arter  'im  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  None  of 
'em  seemed  to  be  able  to  believe  that  the  lottery  could 
be  all  over  so  soon,  and  Bob  Pretty  going  off  with  it, 
and  when  they  did  make  up  their  minds  to  it,  it  was 
one  o'  the  most  miserable  sights  you  ever  see.  The 
idea  that  they  'ad  been  paying  a  pint  a  week  for  Bob 
Pretty  for  months  nearly  sent  some  of  'em  out  of  their 
minds. 

"It  can't  be  'elped,"  ses  Mr.  Smith.  "He  'ad  the 
pluck  to  draw  fust,  and  he  won;  anybody  else  might 
ha*  done  it.  He  gave  you  the  offer,  George  Kettle, 
and  you,  too,  Henery  Walker." 

Henery  Walker  was  too  low-spirited  to  answer  'im; 
and  arter  Smith  'ad  said  "Hush!"  to  George  Kettle 
three  times,  he  up  and  put  'im  outside  for  the  sake  of 
the  'ouse. 

When  'e  came  back  it  was  all  quiet  and  everybody 
was  staring  their  'ardest  at  little  Dicky  Weed,  the 
tailor,  who  was  sitting  with  his  head  in  his  'ands, 

227 


Prize   Money 

thinking,  and  every  now  and  then  taking  them  away 
and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  or  else  leaning  forward 
with  a  start  and  looking  as  if  'e  saw  something  crawl- 
ing on  the  wall. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  ses  Mr.  Smith. 

Dicky  Weed  didn't  answer  'im.  He  shut  his  eyes 
tight  and  then  'e  jumps  up  all  of  a  sudden.  "I've 
got  it ! "  he  says.  "  Where's  that  bag  ? " 

"Wot  bag  ?"  ses  Mr.  Smith,  staring  at  'im. 

"The  bag  with  the  papers  in,"  ses  Dicky. 

"Where  Bob  Pretty  ought  to  be,"  ses  Bill  Cham- 
bers. "On  the  fire." 

"Wot?"  screams  Dicky  Weed.  "Now  you've 
been  and  spoilt  everything!" 

"Speak  English,"  ses  Bill. 

"I  will!"  ses  Dicky,  trembling  all  over  with 
temper.  "Who  asked  you  to  put  it  on  the  fire? 
Who  asked  you  to  put  yourself  forward  ?  I  see  it  all 
now,  and  it's  too  late." 

"Wot's  too  late  ?"  ses  Sam  Jones. 

"When  Bob  Pretty  put  his  'and  in  that  bag,"  ses 
Dicky  Weed,  holding  up  'is  finger  and  looking  at 
them,  "he'd  got  a  bit  o'  paper  already  in  it — a  bit  o' 
paper  with  the  figger  V  on  it.  That's  'ow  he  done 
it.  While  we  was  all  watching  Mr.  Smith,  he  was 
getting  'is  own  bit  o'  paper  ready." 

He  'ad  to  say  it  three  times  afore  they  understood 
228 


Prize   Money 

'im,  and  then  they  went  down  on  their  knees  and 
burnt  their  fingers  picking  up  bits  o'  paper  that  'ad 
fallen  in  the  fireplace.  They  found  six  pieces  in  all, 
but  not  one  with  the  number  they  was  looking  for 
on  it,  and  then  they  all  got  up  and  said  wot  ought  to 
be  done  to  Bob  Pretty. 

11  You  can't  do  anything,"  ses  Smith,  the  landlord. 
"You  can't  prove  it.  After  all,  it's  only  Dicky's 
idea." 

Arf-a-dozen  of  'em  all  began  speaking  at  once,  but 
Bill  Chambers  gave  'em  the  wink,  and  pretended  to 
agree  with  'im. 

"We're  going  to  have  that  hamper  back,"  he  ses, 
as  soon  as  Mr.  Smith  'ad  gone  back  to  the  bar,  "but 
it  won't  do  to  let  'im  know.  He  don't  like  to  think 
that  Bob  Pretty  was  one  too  many  for  'im." 

"  Let's  all  go  to  Bob  Pretty's  and  take  it,"  ses 
Peter  Gubbins,  wot  'ad  been  in  the  Militia. 

Dicky  Weed  shook  his  'ead.  "He'd  'ave  the  lor 
on  us  for  robbery,"  he  ses;  "there's  nothing  he'd 
like  better." 

They  talked  it  over  till  closing-time,  but  nobody 
seemed  to  know  wot  to  do,  and  they  stood  outside  in 
the  bitter  cold  for  over  arf  an  hour  still  trying  to  make 
up  their  minds  W  to  get  that  hamper  back.  Fust 
one  went  off  'ome  and  then  another,  and  at  last,  when 
there  was  on'y  three  or  four  of  'em  left,  Henery 

229 


Prize  Money 

Walker,  wot  prided  himself  on  'is  artfulness,  'ad  an 
idea. 

"  One  of  us  must  get  Bob  Pretty  up  'ere  to-morrow 
night  and  stand  'im  a  pint,  or  p'r'aps  two  pints,"  he 
ses.  "While  he's  here  two  other  chaps  must  'ave  a 
row  close  by  his  'ouse  and  pretend  to  fight.  Mrs. 
Pretty  and  the  young  'uns  are  sure  to  run  out  to  look 
at  it,  and  while  they  are  out  another  chap  can  go  in 
quiet-like  and  get  the  hamper." 

It  seemed  a  wunnerful  good  idea,  and  Bill  Cham- 
bers said  so;  and  'e  flattered  Henery  Walker  up 
until  Henery  didn't  know  where  to  look,  as  the 
saying  is. 

"And  wot's  to  be  done  with  the  hamper  when 
we've  got  it  ?"  ses  Sam  Jones. 

"Have  it  drawed  for  agin,"  ses  Henery.  "It'll 
'ave  to  be  done  on  the  quiet,  o'  course." 

Sam  Jones  stood  thinking  for  a  bit.  "Burn  the 
hamper  and  draw  lots  for  everything  separate,"  'e  ses, 
very  slow.  "If  Bob  Pretty  ses  it's  'is  turkey  and 
goose  and  spirits,  tell  'im  to  prove  it.  We  sha'n't 
know  nothing  about  it." 

Henery  Walker  said  it  was  a  good  plan;  and  arter 
talking  it  over  they  walked  'ome  all  very  pleased  with 
theirselves.  They  talked  it  over  next  day  with  the 
other  chaps;  and  Henery  Walker  said  arterwards 
that  p'r'aps  it  was  talked  over  a  bit  too  much. 

230 


Prize   Money 

It  took  'em  some  time  to  make  up  their  minds 
about  it,  but  at  last  it  was  settled  that  Peter  Gubbins 
was  to  stand  Bob  Pretty  the  beer;  Ted  Brown,  who 
was  well  known  for  his  'ot  temper,  and  Joe  Smith 
was  to  'ave  the  quarrel;  and  Henery  Walker  was  to 
slip  in  and  steal  the  hamper,  and  'ide  the  things  up  at 
his  place. 

Bob  Pretty  fell  into  the  trap  at  once.  He  was 
standing  at  'is  gate  in  the  dark,  next  day,  smoking  a 
pipe,  when  Peter  Gubbins  passed,  and  Peter,  arter 
stopping  and  asking  'im  for  a  light,  spoke  about  'is 
luck  in  getting  the  hamper,  and  told  'im  he  didn't 
bear  no  malice  for  it. 

"You  'ad  the  pluck  to  draw  fust,"  he  ses,  "and 
you  won." 

Bob  Pretty  said  he  was  a  Briton,  and  arter  a  little 
more  talk  Peter  asked  'im  to  go  and  'ave  a  pint  with 
'im  to  show  that  there  was  no  ill-feeling.  They  came 
into  this  'ere  Cauliflower  public-'ouse  like  brothers, 
and  in  less  than  ten  minutes  everybody  was  making  as 
much  fuss  o'  Bob  Pretty  as  if  'e'd  been  the  best  man 
in  Claybury. 

"Arter  all,  a  man  can't  'elp  winning  a  prize,"  ses 
Bill  Chambers,  looking  round. 

"I  couldn't,"  ses  Bob. 

He  sat  down  and  'elped  hisself  out  o'  Sam  Jones's 
baccy-box;  and  one  or  two  got  up  on  the  quiet  and 

231 


Prize  Money 

went  outside  to  listen  to  wot  was  going  on  down  the 
road.  Everybody  was  wondering  wot  was  happen- 
ing, and  when  Bob  Pretty  got  up  and  said  'e  must  be 
going,  Bill  Chambers  caught  'old  of  him  by  the  coat 
and  asked  'im  to  have  arf  a  pint  with  'im. 

Bob  had  the  arf-pint,  and  arter  that  another  one 
with  Sam  Jones,  and  then  'e  said  'e  really  must  be 
going,  as  his  wife  was  expecting  'im.  He  pushed 
Bill  Chambers's  'at  over  his  eyes — a  thing  Bill  can't 
abear — and  arter  filling  'is  pipe  agin  from  Sam 
Jones's  box  he  got  up  and  went. 

"Mind  you,"  ses  Bill  Chambers,  looking  round, 
"if  'e  comes  back  and  ses  somebody  'as  taken  his 
hamper,  nobody  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"I  'ope  Henery  Walker  'as  got  it  all  right,"  ses 
Dicky  Weed.  "When  shall  we  know  ?" 

"He'll  come  up  'ere  and  tell  us,"  ses  Bill  Chambers. 
"It's  time  'e  was  here,  a'most." 

Five  minutes  arterwards  the  door  opened  and 
Henery  Walker  came  staggering  in.  He  was  as  white 
as  a  sheet,  his  'at  was  knocked  on  one  side  of  his  'ead, 
and  there  was  two  or  three  nasty-looking  scratches 
on  'is  cheek.  He  came  straight  to  Bill  Chambers's 
mug — wot  'ad  just  been  filled — and  emptied  it,  and 
then  'e  sat  down  on  a  seat  gasping  for  breath. 

"Wot's  the  matter,  Henery?"  ses  Bill,  staring  at 
'im  with  'is  mouth  open. 

232 


233 


Prize   Money 

Henery  Walker  groaned  and  shook  his  'ead. 

"  Didn't  you  get  the  hamper  ? "  ses  Bill,  turning  pale. 

Henery  Walker  shook  his  'ead  agin. 

"Shut  up!"  he  ses,  as  Bill  Chambers  started  find- 
ing fault.  "  I  done  the  best  I  could.  Nothing  could 
ha*  'appened  better — to  start  with.  Directly  Ted 
Brown  and  Joe  Smith  started,  Mrs.  Pretty  and  her 
sister,  and  all  the  kids  excepting  the  baby,  run  out, 
and  they'd  'ardly  gone  afore  I  was  inside  the  back 
door  and  looking  for  that  hamper,  and  I'd  hardly 
started  afore  I  heard  them  coming  back  agin.  I  was 
at  the  foot  o'  the  stairs  at  the  time,  and,  not  knowing 
wot  to  do,  I  went  up  'em  into  Bob's  bedroom." 

"Well?"  ses  Bill  Chambers,  as  Henery  Walker 
stopped  and  looked  round. 

"A'most  direckly  arterwards  I  'card  Mrs.  Pretty 
and  her  sister  coming  upstairs,"  ses  Henery  Walker, 
with  a  shudder.  "I  was  under  the  bed  at  the  time, 
and  afore  I  could  say  a  word  Mrs.  Pretty  gave  a  loud 
screech  and  scratched  my  face  something  cruel.  I 
thought  she'd  gone  mad." 

"You've  made  a  nice  mess  of  it!"  ses  Bill  Cham- 
bers. 

"Mess!"  ses  Henery,  firing  up.  "Wot  would  you 
ha' done?" 

"  I  should  ha'  managed  different,"  ses  Bill  Cham- 
bers. "Did  she  know  who  you  was?" 

234 


Prize   Money 

"  Know  who  I  was  ?"  ses  Henery.  "O'  course  she 
did.  It's  my  belief  that  Bob  knew  all  about  it  and 
told  'er  wot  to  do." 

"Well,  you've  done  it  now,  Henery,"  ses  Bill 
Chambers.  "Still,  that's  your  affair." 

"Ho,  is  it?"  ses  Henery  Walker.  "You  'ad  as 
much  to  do  with  it  as  I  'ad,  excepting  that  you  was 
sitting  up  'ere  in  comfort  while  I  was  doing  all  the 
work.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  I  got  off  as  well  as  I 
did." 

Bill  Chambers  sat  staring  at  'im  and  scratching 
his  'ead,  and  just  then  they  all  'card  the  voice  of  Bob 
Pretty,  very  distinct,  outside,  asking  for  Henery 
Walker.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  Bob  Pretty, 
carrying  his  'ead  very  'igh,  walked  into  the  room. 

"Where's  Henery  Walker?"  he  ses,  in  a  loud 
voice. 

Henery  Walker  put  down  the  empty  mug  wot  he'd 
been  pretending  to  drink  out  of  and  tried  to  smile 
at  'im. 

"Halloa,  Bob!  "he  ses. 

"What  was  you  doing  in  my  'ouse?"  ses  Bob 
Pretty,  very  severe. 

"I — I  just  looked  in  to  see  whether  you  was  in, 
Bob,"  ses  Henery. 

"That's  why  you  was  found  under  my  bed,  I 
s'pose  ?"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "  I  want  a  straight  answer, 

235 


236 


Prize  Money 

Henery  Walker,  and  I  mean  to  'ave  it,  else  I'm  going 
off  to  Cudford  for  Policeman  White." 

"I  went  there  to  get  that  hamper,"  ses  Henery 
Walker,  plucking  up  spirit.  "You  won  it  unfair  last 
night,  and  we  determined  for  to  get  it  back.  So  now 
you  know." 

"  I  call  on  all  of  you  to  witness  that,"  ses  Bob, 
looking  round.  "Henery  Walker  went  into  my 
'ouse  to  steal  my  hamper.  He  ses  so,  and  it  wasn't 
'is  fault  he  couldn't  find  it.  I'm  a  pore  man  and  I 
can't  afford  such  things;  I  sold  it  this  morning,  a 
bargain,  for  thirty  bob." 

"Well,  then  there's  no  call  to  make  a  fuss  over  it, 
Bob,"  ses  Bill  Chambers. 

"I  sold  it  for  thirty  bob,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  "and 
when  I  went  out  this  evening  I  left  the  money  on  my 
bedroom  mantelpiece — one  pound,  two  arf-crowns, 
two  two-shilling  pieces,  and  two  sixpences.  My  wife 
and  her  sister  both  saw  it  there.  That  they'll  swear  to." 

"Well,  wot  about  it?"  ses  Sam  Jones,  staring 
at  'im. 

"Arter  my  pore  wife  'ad  begged  and  prayed 
Henery  Walker  on  'er  bended  knees  to  spare  'er  life 
and  go,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  "she  looked  at  the  mantel- 
piece and  found  the  money  'ad  disappeared." 

Henery  Walker  got  up  all  white  and  shaking  and 
flung  'is  arms  about,  trying  to  get  'is  breath. 

237 


Prize   Money 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  I  stole  it  ?"  he  ses,  at  last. 

"O'  course  I  do,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "Why,  you 
said  yourself  afore  these  witnesses  and  Mr.  Smith 
that  you  came  to  steal  the  hamper.  Wot's  the  dif- 
ference between  stealing  the  hamper  and  the  money 
I  sold  it  for?" 

Henery  Walker  tried  for  to  answer  'im,  but  he 
couldn't  speak  a  word. 

"I  left  my  pore  wife  with  'er  apron  over  her  'ead 
sobbing  as  if  her  'art  would  break,"  ses  Bob  Pretty; 
"  not  because  o'  the  loss  of  the  money  so  much,  but 
to  think  of  Henery  Walker  doing  such  a  thing — and 
'aving  to  go  to  jail  for  it." 

"I  never  touched  your  money,  and  you  know  it," 
ses  Henery  Walker,  finding  his  breath  at  last.  "I 
don't  believe  it  was  there.  You  and  your  wife  'ud 
swear  anything." 

"As  you  please,  Henery,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "Only 
I'm  going  straight  off  to  Cudford  to  see  Policeman 
White;  he'll  be  glad  of  a  job,  I  know.  There's  three 
of  us  to  swear  to  it,  and  you  was  found  under  my 
bed." 

"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  Bob,"  ses  Bill  Chambers, 
trying  to  smile  at  'im. 

"No,  mate,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "I'm  going  to  'ave 
my  rights,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  'ard  on  a  man  I've 
known  all  my  life;  and  if,  afore  I  go  to  my  bed  to- 

338 


Prize   Money 

night,  the  thirty  shillings  is  brought  to  me,   I  won't 
say  as  I  won't  look  over  it." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  shaking  his  'ead  at  them, 
and  then,  still  holding  it  very  'igh,  he  turned  round 
and  walked  out. 

"He  never  left  no  money  on  the  mantelpiece,"  ses 
Sam  Jones,  at  last.  "  Don't  you  believe  it.  You  go 
to  jail,  Henery." 

"Anything  sooner  than  be  done  by  Bob  Pretty," 
ses  George  Kettle. 

"There's  not  much  doing  now,  Henery,"  ses  Bill 
Chambers,  in  a  soft  voice. 

Henery  Walker  wouldn't  listen  to  'em,  and  he 
jumped  up  and  carried  on  like  a  madman.  His  idea 
was  for  'em  all  to  club  together  to  pay  the  money,  and 
to  borrow  it  from  Smith,  the  landlord,  to  go  on  with. 
They  wouldn't  'ear  of  it  at  fust,  but  arter  Smith  'ad 
pointed  out  that  they  might  'ave  to  go  to  jail  with 
Henery,  and  said  things  about  'is  license,  they  gave 
way.  Bob  Pretty  was  just  starting  off  to  see  Police- 
man White  when  they  took  the  money,  and  instead  o' 
telling  'im  wot  they  thought  of  'im,  as  they  'ad  in- 
tended, Henery  Walker  'ad  to  walk  alongside  of  'im 
and  beg  and  pray  of  'im  to  take  the  money.  He  took 
it  at  last  as  a  favor  to  Henery,  and  bought  the  hamper 
back  with  it  next  morning — cheap.  Leastways,  he 
said  so. 

239 


DOUBLE   DEALING 


Stood  on  the  spacious  common,  inhaling  the  salt  smell  of 
the  sea  below. 


248 


Double   Dealing 

MR.  FRED  CARTER  stood  on  the  spacious 
common,  inhaling  with  all  the  joy  of  the 
holiday-making  Londoner  the  salt  smell 
of  the  sea  below,  and  regarding  with  some  interest  the 
movements  of  a  couple  of  men  who  had  come  to  a 
stop  a  short  distance  away.  As  he  looked  they  came 
on  again,  eying  him  closely  as  they  approached — a 
strongly  built,  shambling  man  of  fifty,  and  a  younger 
man,  evidently  his  son. 

"Good-evening,"  said  the  former,  as  they  came 
abreast  of  Mr.  Carter. 

"Good-evening,"  he  replied. 

"That's  him,"  said  both  together. 

They  stood  regarding  him  in  a  fashion  unmistak- 
ably hostile.  Mr.  Carter,  with  an  uneasy  smile, 
awaited  developments. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?"  de- 
manded the  elder  man,  at  last.  "  Do  you  call  your- 
self a  man  ?" 

"I  don't  call  myself  anything,"  said  the  puzzled 
243 


Double   Dealing 

Mr.    Carter.     "Perhaps   you're    mistaking    me   for 
somebody  else." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,"  said  the  younger  man,  turning 
to  the  other — "didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  say  that?" 

"He  can  say  what  he  likes,"  said  the  other,  "but 
we've  got  him  now.  If  he  gets  away  from  me  he'll 
be  cleverer  than  what  he  thinks  he  is." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  with  him  now  we've  got  him  ?" 
inquired  his  son. 

The  elder  man  clenched  a  huge  fist  and  eyed  Mr. 
Carter  savagely.  "  If  I  was  just  considering  myself," 
he  said,  "I  should  hammer  him  till  I  was  tired  and 
then  chuck  him  into  the  sea." 

His  son  nodded.  "That  wouldn't  do  Nancy  much 
good,  though,"  he  remarked. 

"I  want  to  do  everything  for  the  best,"  said  the 
other,  "  and  I  s'pose  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  do 
is  to  take  him  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  run  him 
along  to  Nancy." 

"You  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  hotly.  "Who  is 
Nancy?."  ' 

The  other  growled,  and  was  about  to  aim  a  blow 
at  him  when  his  son  threw  himself  upon  him  and  be- 
sought him  to  be  calm. 

"Just  one,"  said  his  father,  struggling,  "only  one. 
It  would  do  me  good;  and  perhaps  he'd  come  along 
the  quieter  for  it." 

244 


Double   Dealing 

"Look  here!"  said  Mr.  Carter.  "You're  mistak- 
ing me  for  somebody  else,  that's  what  you  are  doing. 
What  am  I  supposed  to  have  done?" 

"You're  supposed  to  have  come  courting  my 
daughter,  Mr.  Somebody  Else,"  said  the  other,  re- 
leasing himself  and  thrusting  his  face  into  Mr. 
Carter's,  "and,  after  getting  her  promise  to  marry 
you,  nipping  off  to  London  to  arrange  for  the  wed- 
ding. She's  been  mourning  over  you  for  four  years 
now,  having  an  idea  that  you  had  been  made  away 
with." 

"  Being  true  to  your  memory,  you  skunk,"  said  the 
son. 

"And  won't  look  at  decent  chaps  that  want  to 
marry  her,"  added  the  other. 

"It's  all  a  mistake/*  said  Mr.  Carter.  "I  came 
down  here  this  morning  for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

"  Bring  him  along,"  said  the  son,  impatiently.  "  It's 
a  waste  of  time  talking  to  him." 

Mr.  Carter  took  a  step  back  and  parleyed.  "I'll 
come  along  with  you  of  my  own  free  will,'.'  he  said, 
hastily,  "just  to  show  you  that  you  are  wrong;  but 
I  won't  be  forced." 

He  turned  and  walked  back  with  them  towards  the 
town,  pausing  occasionally  to  admire  the  view.  Once 
he  paused  so  long  that  an  ominous  growl  arose  from 
the  elder  of  his  captors. 

245 


Double   Dealing 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  eying  him 
in  consternation;  "suppose  that  she  makes  the  same 


An  elderly  boatman,  after  looking  at  him  hard,  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  bade  him  "  Good-evening." 

mistake  that  you  have  made  ?     Oh,  Lord!" 

"  Keeps  it  up  pretty  well,  don't  he,  Jim  ?"  said  the 
father. 

246 


Double   Dealing 

The  other  grunted  and,  drawing  nearer  to  Mr. 
Carter  as  they  entered  the  town,  stepped  along  in 
silence.  Questions  which  Mr.  Carter  asked  with  the 
laudable  desire  of  showing  his  ignorance  concerning 
the  neighborhood  elicited  no  reply.  His  discomfiture 
was  increased  by  the  behavior  of  an  elderly  boatman, 
who,  after  looking  at  him  hard,  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  bade  him  "Good-evening."  Father  and 
son  exchanged  significant  glances. 

They  turned  at  last  into  a  small  street,  and  the 
elder  man,  opening  the  door  of  a  neat  cottage,  laid 
his  hand  on  the  prisoner's  shoulder  and  motioned  him 
in.  Mr.  Carter  obeyed,  and,  entering  a  spotless 
living-room,  removed  his  hat  and  with  affected  com- 
posure seated  himself  in  an  easy-chair. 

"I'll  go  up  and  tell  Nan,"  said  Jim.  "Don't  let 
him  run  away." 

He  sprang  up  the  stairs,  which  led  from  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  the  next  moment  the  voice  of  a 
young  lady,  laboring  under  intense  excitement,  fell 
on  the  ears  of  Mr.  Carter.  With  a  fine  attempt  at 
unconcern  he  rose  and  inspected  an  aged  engraving 
of  "The  Sailor's  Return." 

"She'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  said  Jim,  return- 
ing. 

"  P'r'aps  it's  as  well  that  I  didn't  set  about  him, 
after  all,"  said  his  father.  "If  I  had  done  what  I 

247 


Double   Dealing 

should  like  to  do,  his  own  mother  wouldn't  have 
known  him." 

Mr.  Carter  sniffed  defiantly  and,  with  a  bored  air, 
resumed  his  seat.  Ten  minutes  passed — fifteen;  at 
the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  elder  man's  impatience 
found  vent  in  a  tirade  against  the  entire  sex. 

"She's  dressing  up;  that's  what  it  is,"  explained 
Jim.  "For  him!" 

A  door  opened  above  and  a  step  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  Mr.  Carter  looked  up  uneasily,  and,  after 
the  first  sensation  of  astonishment  had  passed,  won- 
dered vaguely  what  his  double  had  run  away  for. 
The  girl,  her  lips  parted  and  her  eyes  bright,  came 
swiftly  down  into  the  room. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Eh  ?"  said  her  father,  in  surprise.  "Why,  there! 
Can't  you  see  ?" 

The  light  died  out  of  the  girl's  face  and  she  looked 
round  in  dismay.  The  watchful  Mr.  Carter  thought 
that  he  also  detected  in  her  glance  a  spice  of  that 
temper  which  had  made  her  relatives  so  objectionable. 

"That!"  she  said,  loudly.  "That!  That's  not  my 
Bert!" 

"That's  what  I  told  'em,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  defer- 
entially, "over  and  over  again." 

"  What!"  said  her  father,  loudly.    "Look  again." 

"If  I  looked  all  night  it  wouldn't  make  any  differ- 
248 


Double   Dealing 

ence,"  said  the  disappointed  Miss  Evans.     "  The  idea 
of  making  such  a  mistake!" 

"We're  all  liable  to  mistakes,"  said  Mr.  Carter, 
magnanimously,  "even  the  best  of  us." 

"You  take  a  good  look  at  him,"  urged  her  brother, 
"and  don't  forget  that  it's  four  years  since  you  saw 
him.  Isn't  that  Bert's  nose?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  glancing  at  the  feature  in 
question,  "not  a  bit  like  it.  Bert  had  a  beautiful 
nose." 

"Look  at  his  eyes,"  said  Jim. 

Miss  Evans  looked,  and  meeting  Mr.  Carter's 
steady  gaze  tossed  her  head  scornfully  and  endeav- 
ored to  stare  him  down.  Realizing  too  late  the 
magnitude  of  the  task,  but  unwilling  to  accept  defeat, 
she  stood  confronting  him  with  indignant  eyes. 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Evans,  misunderstanding. 

"Not  a  bit  like,"  said  his  daughter,  turning  thank- 
fully. "And  if  you  don't  like  Bert,  you  needn't 
insult  him." 

She  sat  down  with  her  back  towards  Mr.  Carter 
and  looked  out  at  the  window. 

"Well,  I  could  ha'  sworn  it  was  Bert  Simmons," 
said  the  discomfited  Mr.  Evans. 

"Me,  too,"  said  his  son.  "I'd  ha'  sworn  to  him 
anywhere.  It's  the  most  extraordinary  likeness  I've 
ever  seen." 

249 


Double   Dealing 

He  caught  his  father's  eye,  and  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb  telegraphed  for  instructions  as  to  the  disposal 
of  Mr.  Carter. 

"He  can  go,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  with  an  attempt  at 
dignity;  "he  can  go  this  time,  and  I  hope  that  this'll 
be  a  lesson  to  him  not  to  go  about  looking  like  other 
people.  If  he  does,  next  time,  p'r'aps,  he  won't 
escape  so  easy." 

"You're  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  blandly. 
"I'll  get  a  new  face  first  thing  to-morrow  morning. 
I  ought  to  have  done  it  before." 

He  crossed  to  the  door  and,  nodding  to  the  fer- 
menting Mr.  Evans,  bowed  to  the  profile  of  Miss 
Evans  and  walked  slowly  out.  Envy  of  Mr.  Sim- 
mons was  mingled  with  amazement  at  his  deplorable 
lack  of  taste  and  common  sense.  He  would  willingly 
have  changed  places  with  him.  There  was  evidently 
a  strong  likeness,  and 

Busy  with  his  thoughts  he  came  to  a  standstill  in 
the  centre  of  the  footpath,  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
air  of  determination,  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Evans,  as  the  door  opened  and 
the  face  of  Mr.  Carter  was  thrust  in.  "  What  have 
you  come  back  for?" 

The  other  stepped  into  the  room  and  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  him.  "I  have  come  back,"  he 

250 


Double   Dealing 

said,   slowly — "I   have  come   back   because   I   feel 
ashamed  of  myself." 

"Ashamed  of  yourself?"  repeated  Mr.  Evans,  ris- 
ing and  confronting  him. 

Mr.  Carter  hung  his  head  and  gazed  nervously  in 
the  direction  of  the  girl.  "  I  can't  keep  up  this  decep- 
tion," he  said,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice.  "I  am 
Bert  Simmons.  At  least,  that  is  the  name  I  told  you 
four  years  ago." 

"I  knew  I  hadn't  made  a  mistake,"  roared  Mr. 
Evans  to  his  son.  "  I  knew  him  well  enough.  Shut 
the  door,  Jim.  Don't  let  him  go." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  with  a  glance 
in  the  direction  of  Nancy.  "  I  have  come  back  to 
make  amends." 

"Fancy  Nancy  not  knowing  him!"  said  Jim,  gaz- 
ing at  the  astonished  Miss  Evans. 

"  She  was  afraid  of  getting  me  into  trouble,"  said 
Mr.  Carter,  "and  I  just  gave  her  a  wink  not  to 
recognize  me;  but  she  knew  me  well  enough,  bless 
her." 

"  How  dare  you ! "  said  the  girl,  starting  up.  "  Why, 
I've  never  seen  you  before  in  my  life." 

"All  right,  Nan,"  said  the  brazen  Mr.  Carter; 
"  but  it's  no  good  keeping  it  up  now.  I've  come  back 
to  act  fair  and  square." 

Miss  Evans  struggled  for  breath. 
251 


Double   Dealing 

"There  he  is,  my  girl,"  said  her  father,  patting  her 
on  the  back.  "He's  not  much  to  look  at,  and  he 
treated  you  very  shabby,  but  if  you  want  him  I  sup- 
pose you  must  have  him." 

"Want  him?"  repeated  the  incensed  Miss  Evans. 
"Want  him  ?  I  tell  you  it's  not  Bert.  How  dare  he 
come  here  and  call  me  Nan  ?" 

"You  used  not  to  mind  it,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  plain- 
tively. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Evans,  turning  to  her 
father  and  brother,  "it's  not  Bert.  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  ?" 

"Well,  he  ought  to  know  who  he  is,"  said  her 
father,  reasonably. 

"Of  course  I  ought,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  smiling  at 
her.  "  Besides,  what  reason  should  I  have  for  saying 
I  am  Bert  if  I  am  not?" 

;<  That's  a  fair  question,"  said  Jim,  as  the  girl  bit 
her  lip.  "Why  should  he?" 

"Ask  him,"  said  the  girl,  tartly. 

"Look  here,  my  girl,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  in  ominous 
accents.  "  For  four  years  you've  been  grieving  over 
Bert,  and  me  and  Jim  have  been  hunting  high  and 
low  for  him.  We've  got  him  at  last,  and  now  you've 
got  to  have  him." 

"If  he  don't  run  away  again,"  said  Jim.  "I 
wouldn't  trust  him  farther  than  I  could  see  him." 

252 


Double   Dealing 

Mr.  Evans  sat  and  glowered  at  his  prospective 
son-in-law  as  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  developed 
themselves.  Even  Mr.  Carter's  reminders  that  he 
had  come  back  and  surrendered  of  his  own  free  will 
failed  to  move  him,  and  he  was  hesitating  between 
tying  him  up  and  locking  him  in  the  attic  and  hiring 
a  man  to  watch  him,  when  Mr.  Carter  himself  sug- 
gested a  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

'Til  lodge  with  you,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  give  you 
all  my  money  and  things  to  take  care  of.  I  can't 
run  away  without  money." 

He  turned  out  his  pockets  on  the  table.  Seven 
pounds  eighteen  shillings  and  fourpence  with  his  re- 
turn ticket  made  one  heap;  his  watch  and  chain, 
penknife,  and  a  few  other  accessories  another.  A 
suggestion  of  Jim's  that  he  should  add  his  boots  was 
vetoed  by  the  elder  man  as  unnecessary. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  sweeping  the 
things  into  his  own  pockets;  "and  the  day  you  are 
married  I  hand  them  back  to  you." 

His  temper  improved  as  the  evening  wore  on.  By 
the  time  supper  was  finished  and  his  pipe  alight  he 
became  almost  jocular,  and  the  coldness  of  Miss 
Evans  was  the  only  drawback  to  an  otherwise  enjoy- 
able evening. 

"  Just  showing  off  a  little  temper,"  said  her  father, 
after  she  had  withdrawn;  "and  wants  to  show  she 

253 


354 


Double   Dealing 

ain't  going  to  forgive  you  too  easy.  Not  but  what 
you  behaved  badly;  however,  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones, that's  my  idea." 

The  behavior  of  Miss  Evans  was  so  much  better 
next  day  that  it  really  seemed  as  though  her  father's 
diagnosis  was  correct.  At  dinner,  when  the  men 
came  home  from  work,  she  piled  Mr.  Carter's  plate 
up  so  generously  that  her  father  and  brother  had 
ample  time  at  their  disposal  to  watch  him  eat.  And 
when  he  put  his  hand  over  his  glass  she  poured  half 
a  pint  of  good  beer,  that  other  men  would  have  been 
thankful  for,  up  his  sleeve. 

She  was  out  all  the  afternoon,  but  at  tea  time  she 
sat  next  to  Mr.  Carter,  and  joined  brightly  in  the 
conversation  concerning  her  marriage.  She  ad- 
dressed him  as  Bert,  and  when  he  furtively  pressed 
her  hand  beneath  the  table-cloth  she  made  no  at- 
tempt to  withdraw  it. 

"  I  can't  think  how  it  was  you  didn't  know  him  at 
first,"  said  her  father.  "You're  usually  wide-awake 
enough." 

"Silly  of  me,"  said  Nancy;  "but  I  am  silly  some- 
times." 

Mr.  Carter  pressed  her  hand  again,  and  gazing 
tenderly  into  her  eyes  received  a  glance  in  return 
which  set  him  thinking.  It  was  too  cold  and  cal- 
culating for  real  affection;  in  fact,  after  another 

255 


Double   Dealing 

glance,  he  began  to  doubt  if  it  indicated  affection 
at  all. 

"It's  like  old  times,  Bert,"  said  Miss  Evans,  with 
an  odd  smile.  "Do  you  remember  what  you  said 
that  afternoon  when  I  put  the  hot  spoon  on  your 
neck?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  was  it  ?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"I  won't  repeat  it,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  firmly. 

He  was  reminded  of  other  episodes  during  the 
meal,  but,  by  the  exercise  of  tact  and  the  plea  of  a 
bad  memory,  did  fairly  well.  He  felt  that  he  had 
done  very  well  indeed  when,  having  cleared  the  tea- 
things  away,  Nancy  came  and  sat  beside  him  with 
her  hand  in  his.  Her  brother  grunted,  but  Mr. 
Evans,  in  whom  a  vein  of  sentiment  still  lingered, 
watched  them  with  much  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Carter  had  got  possession  of  both  hands  and 
was  murmuring  fulsome  flatteries  when  the  sound  of 
somebody  pausing  at  the  open  door  caused  them  to  be 
hastily  withdrawn. 

"Evening,  Mr.  Evans,"  said  a  young  man,  put- 
ting his  head  in.  "Why,  halloa!  Bert!  Well,  of  all 
the " 

"Halloa!"  said  Mr.  Carter,  with  attempted  en- 
thusiasm, as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  I  thought  you  was  lost,"  said  the  other,  stepping 
256 


Double   Dealing 

in  and  gripping  his  hand.  "I  never  thought  I  was 
going  to  set  eyes  on  you  again.  Well,  this  is  a  sur- 
prise. You  ain't  forgot  Joe  Wilson,  have  you  ?" 

"Course  I  haven't,  Joe,"  said  Mr.  Carter.  "I'd 
have  known  you  anywhere." 

He  shook  hands  effusively,  and  Mr.  Wilson,  after 
a  little  pretended  hesitation,  accepted  a  chair  and 
began  to  talk  about  old  times. 

'*  I  lay  you  ain't  forgot  one  thing,  Bert,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"What's  that  ?"  inquired  the  other. 

"That  arf-quid  I  lent  you,"  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

Mr.  Carter,  after  the  first  shock  of  surprise,  pre- 
tended to  think,  Mr.  Wilson  supplying  him  with 
details  as  to  time  and  place,  which  he  was  in  no 
position  to  dispute.  He  turned  to  Mr.  Evans,  who 
was  still  acting  as  his  banker,  and,  after  a  little  hesi- 
tation, requested  him  to  pay  the  money.  Conversa- 
tion seemed  to  fail  somewhat  after  that,  and  Mr. 
Wilson,  during  an  awkward  pause,  went  off  whist- 
ling. 

"  Same  old  Joe,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  lightly,  after  he 
had  gone.  "He  hasn't  altered  a  bit/' 

Miss  Evans  glanced  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  She 
was  looking  instead  towards  a  gentleman  of  middle 
age  who  was  peeping  round  the  door  indulging  in  a 
waggish  game  of  peep-bo  with  the  unconscious  Mr. 

257 


Double   Dealing 

Carter.  Finding  that  he  had  at  last  attracted  his 
attention,  the  gentleman  came  inside  and,  breathing 
somewhat  heavily  after  his  exertions,  stood  before 
him  with  outstretched  hand. 


A  gentleman  of  middle  age  was  peeping  round  the  door. 

"How  goes  it?"  said  Mr.  Carter,  forcing  a  smile 
and  shaking  hands. 

"He's  grown  better-looking  than  ever,"  said  the 
gentleman,  subsiding  into  a  chair. 

258 


Double   Dealing 

"  So  have  you,"  said  Mr.  Carter.  "  I  should  hardly 
have  known  you." 

"Well,  Pm  glad  to  see  you  again,"  said  the 
other  in  a  more  subdued  fashion.  "We're  all  glad 
to  see  you  back,  and  I  'ope  that  when  the  wed- 
ding cake  is  sent  out  there'll  be  a  bit  for  old  Ben 
Prout." 

"You'll  be  the  first,  Ben,"  said  Mr.  Carter, 
(uickly. 

Mr.  Prout  got  up  and  shook  hands  with  him  again. 
(It  only  shows  what  mistakes  a  man  can  make,"  he 
said,  resuming  his  seat.  "It  only  shows  how  easy 
it  is  to  misjudge  one's  fellow-creeturs.  When  you 
went  away  sudden  four  years  ago,  I  says  to  myself, 
'Ben  Prout,'  I  says,  'make  up  your  mind  to  it,  that 
two  quid  has  gorn.' ' 

The  smile  vanished  from  Mr.  Carter's  face,  and  a 
sudden  chill  descended  upon  the  company. 

"Two  quid  ?"  he  said,  stiffly.    "What  two  quid  ?" 

"The  two  quid  I  lent  you,"  said  Mr.  Prout,  in  a 
pained  voice. 

"When?"  said  Mr.  Carter,  struggling. 

"When  you  and  I  met  him  that  evening  on  the 
pier,"  said  Miss  Evans,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

Mr.  Carter  started,  and  gazed  at  her  uneasily. 
The  smile  on  her  lip  and  the  triumphant  gleam  in  her 
eye  were  a  revelation  to  him.  He  turned  to  Mr. 

259 


Double   Dealing 

Evans  and  in  as  calm  a  voice  as  he  could  assume,  re- 
quested him  to  discharge  the  debt.  Mr.  Prout,  his 
fingers  twitching,  stood  waiting. 

"  Well,  it's  your  money,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  grudg- 
ingly extracting  a  purse  from  his  trouser-pocket; 
"and  I  suppose  you  ought  to  pay  your  debts; 
still " 

He  put  down  two  pounds  on  the  table  and  broke 
off  in  sudden  amazement  as  Mr.  Prout,  snatching 
up  the  money,  bolted  headlong  from  the  room.  His 
surprise  was  shared  by  his  son,  but  the  other  two 
made  no  sign.  Mr.  Carter  was  now  prepared  for 
the  worst,  and  his  voice  was  quite  calm  as  he  gave 
instructions  for  the  payment  of  the  other  three  gen- 
tlemen who  presented  claims  during  the  evening  en- 
dorsed by  Miss  Evans.  As  the  last  departed  Mr. 
Evans,  whose  temper  had  been  gradually  getting  be- 
yond his  control,  crossed  over  and  handed  him  his 
watch  and  chain,  a  few  coppers,  and  the  return  half 
of  his  railway  ticket. 

"  I  think  we  can  do  without  you,  after  all,"  he  said, 
breathing  thickly.  "I've  no  doubt  you  owe  money 
all  over  England.  You're  a  cadger,  that's  what  you 
are." 

He  pointed  to  the  door,  and  Mr.  Carter,  after  twice 
opening  his  lips  to  speak  and  failing,  blundered 
towards  it.  Miss  Evans  watched  him  curiously. 

260 


Double   Dealing 

"Cheats  never  prosper,"  she  said,  with  gentle 
severity. 

"Good-by,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  pausing  at  the 
door. 

"  It's  your  own  fault,"  continued  Miss  Evans,  who 
was  suffering  from  a  slight  touch  of  conscience.  "  If 
you  hadn't  come  here  pretending  to  be  Bert  Sim- 
mons and  calling  me  '  Nan '  as  if  you  had  known  me 
all  my  life,  I  wouldn't  have  done  it.'* 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Mr.  Carter.  "I  wish  I 
was  Bert  Simmons,  that's  all.  Good-by." 

"Wish  you  was!"  said  Mr.  Evans,  who  had  been 
listening  in  open-mouthed  astonishment.  "Look 
here!  Man  to  man — are  you  Bert  Simmons  or  are 
you  not?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Carter. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Nancy. 

"And  you  didn't  owe  that  money  ?" 

"Nobody  owed  it,"  said  Nancy.  "It  was  done 
just  to  punish  him." 

Mr.  Evans,  with  a  strange  cry,  blundered  towards 
the  door.  "I'll  have  that  money  out  of  'em,"  he 
roared,  "if  I  have  to  hold  'em  up  and  shake  it  out  of 
their  trouser-pockets.  You  stay  here." 

He  hurried  up  the  road,  and  Jim,  with  the  set  face 
of  a  man  going  into  action  against  heavy  odds,  fol- 
lowed him. 

261 


Double   Dealing 

"Your  father  told  me  to  stay,"  said  Mr.  Carter, 
coming  farther  into  the  room. 

Nancy  looked  up  at  him  through  her  eyelashes. 
"You  need  not  unless  you  want  to,"  she  said,  very 
softly. 


262 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES 


Superstitiousness  is  right  and  proper,  to  a  certain  extent. 


764 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

VERYBODYis  superstitious,"  said  the  night- 
watchman,  as  he  gave  utterance  to  a  series 
of  chirruping  endearments  to  a  black  cat 
with  one  eye  that  had  just  been  using  a  leg  of  his 
trousers  as  a  serviette;  "if  that  cat  'ad  stole  some 
men's  suppers  they'd  have  acted  foolish,  and  suf- 
fered for  it  all  the  rest  of  their  lives." 

He  scratched  the  cat  behind  the  ear,  and  despite 
himself  his  face  darkened.  "Slung  it  over  the  side, 
they  would,"  he  said,  longingly,  "and  chucked  bits 
o'  coke  at  it  till  it  sank.  As  I  said  afore,  everybody 
is  superstitious,  and  those  that  ain't  ought  to  be  night- 
watchmen  for  a  time — that  'ud  cure  'em.  I  knew 
one  man  that  killed  a  black  cat,  and  arter  that  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  he  could  never  get  three  sheets  in 
the  wind  without  seeing  its  ghost.  Spoilt  his  life 
for  'im,  it  did." 

He  scratched  the  cat's  other  ear.  "I  only  left  it  a 
moment,  while  I  went  round  to  the  Bull's  Head,"  he 
said,  slowly  filling  his  pipe,  "and  I  thought  I'd  put 

it  out  o'  reach.     Some  men " 

265 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

His  fingers  twined  round  the  animal's  neck;  then, 
with  a  sigh,  he  rose  and  took  a  turn  or  two  on  the 
jetty. 

Superstitiousness  is  right  and  proper,  to  a  certain 
extent,  he  said,  resuming  his  seat;  but,  o'  course, 
like  everything  else,  some  people  carry  it  too  far— 
they'd  believe  anything.  Weak-minded  they  are, 
and  if  you're  in  no  hurry  I  can  tell  you  a  tale  of  a 
pal  o'  mine,  Bill  Burtenshaw  by  name,  that'll  prove 
my  words. 

His  mother  was  superstitious  afore  'im,  and 
always  knew  when  'er  friends  died  by  hearing  three 
loud  taps  on  ti»e  wall.  The  on'y  mistake  she  ever 
made  was  one  night  when,  arter  losing  no  less  than 
seven  friends,  she  found  out  it  was  the  man  next 
door  hanging  pictures  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
She  found  it  out  by  'im  hitting  'is  thumb-nail. 

For  the  first  few  years  arter  he  grew  up  Bill  went 
to  sea,  and  that  on'y  made  'im  more  superstitious 
than  ever.  Him  and  a  pal  named  Silas  Winch  went 
several  v'y'ges  together,  and  their  talk  used  to  be  that 
creepy  that  some  o*  the  chaps  was  a'most  afraid  to 
be  left  on  deck  alone  of  a  night.  Silas  was  a  long- 
faced,  miserable  sort  o'  chap,  always  looking  on  the 
black  side  o'  things,  and  shaking  his  'ead  over  it. 
He  thought  nothing  o'  seeing  ghosts,  and  pore  old 
Ben  Huggins  slept  on  the  floor  for  a  week  by  reason 

266 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

of  a  ghost  with  its  throat  cut  that  Silas  saw  in  his 
bunk.  He  gave  Silas  arf  a  dollar  and  a  neck-tie  to 
change  bunks  with  'im. 

When  Bill  Burtenshaw  left  the  sea  and  got  married 
he  lost  sight  of  Silas  altogether,  and  the  on'y  thing 
he  'ad  to  remind  him  of  'im  was  a  piece  o'  paper 
which  they  'ad  both  signed  with  their  blood,  promis- 
ing that  the  fust  one  that  died  would  appear  to  the 
other.  Bill  agreed  to  it  one  evenin'  when  he  didn't 
know  wot  he  was  doing,  and  for  years  arterwards  'e 
used  to  get  the  cold  creeps  down  'is  back  when  he 
thought  of  Silas  dying  fust.  And  the  idea  of  dying 
fust  'imself  gave  'im  cold  creeps  all  ovd*. 

Bill  was  a  very  good  husband  when  he  was  sober, 
but  'is  money  was  two  pounds  a  week,  and  when  a 
man  has  all  that  and  on'y  a  wife  to  keep  out  of  it, 
it's  natural  for  'im  to  drink.  Mrs.  Burtenshaw  tried 
all  sorts  o'  ways  and  means  of  curing  'im,  but  it  was 
no  use.  Bill  used  to  think  o'  ways,  too,  knowing  the 
'arm  the  drink  was  doing  'im,  and  his  fav'rite  plan 
was  for  'is  missis  to  empty  a  bucket  o'  cold  water 
over  'im  every  time  he  came  'ome  the  worse  for 
licker.  She  did  it  once,  but  as  she  'ad  to  spend  the 
rest  o'  the  night  in  the  back  yard  it  wasn't  tried 
again. 

Bill  got  worse  as  he  got  older,  and  even  made  away 
with  the  furniture  to  get  drink  with.  And  then  he 

267 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

used  to  tell  'is  missis  that  he  was  drove  to  the  pub 
because  his  'ome  was  so  uncomfortable. 

Just  at  that  time  things  was  at  their  worst  Silas 
Winch,  who  'appened  to  be  ashore  and  'ad  got  Bill's 
address  from  a  pal,  called  to  see  'im.  It  was  a 
Saturday  arternoon  when  he  called,  and,  o'  course, 
Bill  was  out,  but  'is  missis  showed  him  in,  and,  arter 
fetching  another  chair  from  the  kitchen,  asked  'im 
to  sit  down. 

Silas  was  very  perlite  at  fust,  but  arter  looking 
round  the  room  and  seeing  'ow  bare  it  was,  he  gave  a 
little  cough,  and  he  ses,  "I  thought  Bill  was  doing 
well  ?"  he  ses. 

"So  he  is,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw. 

Silas  Winch  coughed  again. 

"I  suppose  he  likes  room  to  stretch  'imself  about 
in  ?"  he  ses,  looking  round. 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  wiped  'er  eyes  and  then,  know- 
ing 'ow  Silas  had  been  an  old  friend  o'  Bill's,  she  drew 
'er  chair  a  bit  closer  and  told  him  'ow  it  was.  "A 
better  'usband,  when  he's  sober,  you  couldn't  wish 
to  see,"  she  ses,  wiping  her  eyes  agin.  "He'd  give 
me  anything — if  he  'ad  it." 

Silas's  face  got  longer  than  ever.  "As  a  matter  o' 
fact,"  he  ses,  "I'm  a  bit  down  on  my  luck,  and  I 
called  round  with  the  'ope  that  Bill  could  lend  me  a 
bit,  just  till  I  can  pull  round." 

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Keeping  up  Appearances 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  shook  her  'ead. 
"Well,  I  s'pose  I  can  stay  and  see  'im  ?"  ses  Silas. 
"  Me  and  'im  used  to  be  great  pals  at  one  time,  and 


Silas  was  very  perlite  at  fust. 


many's  the  good  turn  I've  done  him.     Wot  time'll 
he  be  'ome?" 

"Any  time  after  twelve,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw; 
"but  you'd  better  not  be  here  then.  You  see,  'im 
being  in  that  condition,  he  might  think  you  was  your 

269 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

own  ghost  come  according  to  promise  and  be  fright- 
ened out  of  'is  life.     He's  often  talked  about  it." 

Silas  Winch  scratched  his  head  and  looked  at  'er 
thoughtful-like. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  mistake  me  for  a  ghost?"  he 
ses  at  last;  "the  shock  might  do  'im  good.  And,  if 
you  come  to  that,  why  shouldn't  I  pretend  to  be  my 
own  ghost  and  warn  'im  off  the  drink  ?" 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  got  so  excited  at  the  idea  she 
couldn't  'ardly  speak,  but  at  last,  arter  saying  over 
and  over  agin  she  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  for  worlds, 
she  and  Silas  arranged  that  he  should  come  in  at 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  give  Bill  a 
solemn  warning.  She  gave  'im  her  key,  and  Silas 
said  he'd  come  in  with  his  'air  and  cap  all  wet  and 
pretend  he'd  been  drowned. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  all  this  trouble 
for  nothing,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw  as  Silas  got  up 
to  go. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  ses  Silas.  "It  ain't  the  fust 
rime,  and  I  don't  suppose  it'll  be  the  last,  that  I've 
put  myself  out  to  help  my  feller-creeturs.  We  all 
ought  to  do  wot  we  can  for  each  other." 

"Mind,  if  he  finds  it  out,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw, 
all  of  a  tremble,  "I  don't  know  nothing  about  it. 
P'r'aps  to  make  it  more  life-like  I'd  better  pretend  not 
to  see  you." 

270 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

"PYaps  it  would  be  better,"  ses  Silas,  stopping 
at  the  street  door.  "All  I  ask  is  that  you'll  'ide  the 
poker  and  anything  else  that  might  be  laying  about 
handy.  And  you  'ad  better  oil  the  lock  so  as  the 
key  won't  make  a  noise." 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  shut  the  door  arter  'im,  and  then 
she  went  in  and  'ad  a  quiet  sit-down  all  by  'erself  to 
think  it  over.  The  only  thing  that  comforted  'er 
was  that  Bill  would  be  in  licker,  and  also  that  'e 
would  believe  anything  in  the  ghost  line. 

It  was  past  twelve  when  a  couple  o'  pals  brought 
him  'ome,  and,  arter  offering  to  fight  all  six  of  'em, 
one  after  the  other,  Bill  hit  the  wall  for  getting  in  'is 
way,  and  tumbled  upstairs  to  bed.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  'e  was  fast  asleep,  and  pore  Mrs.  Burtenshaw, 
arter  trying  her  best  to  keep  awake,  fell  asleep  too. 

She  was  woke  up  suddenly  by  a  noise  that  froze 
the  marrer  in  'er  bones — the  most  'art-rending  groan 
she  'ad  ever  heard  in  'er  life;  and,  raising  her  'ead, 
she  saw  Silas  Winch  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
He  'ad  done  his  face  and  hands  over  with  wot  is 
called  loominous  paint,  his  cap  was  pushed  at  the 
back  of  his  'ead,  and  wet  wisps  of  'air  was  hanging 
over  his  eyes.  For  a  moment  Mrs.  Burtenshaw's 
'art  stood  still  and  then  Silas  let  off  another  groan 
that  put  her  on  edge  all  over.  It  was  a  groan  that 
seemed  to  come  from  nothing  a'most  until  it  spread 

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Keeping  up  Appearances 

into  a  roar  that  made  the  room  tremble  and  rattled 
the  jug  in  the  wash-stand  basin.  It  shook  everything 
in  the  room  but  Bill,  and  he  went  on  sleeping  like  an 


She  saw  Silas  Winch  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

infant.  Silas  did  two  more  groans,  and  then  'e 
leaned  over  the  foot  o'  the  bed,  and  stared  at  Bill, 
as  though  'e  couldn't  believe  his  eyesight. 

"Try  a  squeaky  one,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw. 

Silas  tried  five  squeaky  ones,  and  then  he  'ad  a  fit  o* 
coughing  that  would  ha*  woke  the  dead,  as  they  say, 
but  it  didn't  wake  Bill. 

272 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

"Now  some  more  deep  ones,"  ses  Mrs.  Burten- 
shaw,  in  a  w'isper. 

Silas  licked  his  lips — forgetting  the  paint — and 
tried  the  deep  ones  agin. 

"Now  mix  'em  a  bit,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw. 

Silas  stared  at  her.  "  Look  'ere,"  he  ses,  very  short, 
"do  you  think  I'm  a  fog-horn,  or  wot  ?" 

He  stood  there  sulky  for  a  moment,  and  then  'e 
invented  a  noise  that  nothing  living  could  miss  hear- 
ing; even  Bill  couldn't.  He  moved  in  'is  sleep,  and 
arter  Silas  'ad  done  it  twice  more  he  turned  and 
spoke  to  'is  missis  about  it.  "D'ye  hear?"  he  ses; 
"stop  it.  Stop  it  at  once." 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  pretended  to  be  asleep,  and 
Bill  was  just  going  to  turn  over  agin  when  Silas  let 
off  another  groan.  It  was  on'y  a  little  one  this  time, 
but  Bill  sat  up  as  though  he  'ad  been  shot,  and  he  no 
sooner  caught  sight  of  Silas  standing  there  than  'e 
gave  a  dreadful  'owl  and,  rolling  over,  wropped 
'imself  up  in  all  the  bed-clothes  'e  could  lay  his  'ands 
on.  Then  Mrs.  Burtenshaw  gave  a  'owl  and  tried 
to  get  some  of  'em  back;  but  Bill,  thinking  it  was  the 
ghost,  only  held  on  tighter  than  ever. 

"Bill!"  ses  Silas  Winch,  in  an  awful  voice. 

Bill  gave  a  kick,  and  tried  to  bore  a  hole  through 
the  bed. 

"Bill,"  ses  Silas  agin,  "why  don't  vou  ariswer  me ? 
273 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

I've  come  all  the  way  from  the  bottom  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  to  see  you,  and  this  is  all  I  get  for  it.  Haven't 
you  got  anything  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"Good-by,"  ses  Bill,  in  a  voice  all  smothered 
with  the  bed-clothes. 

Silas  Winch  groaned  agin,  and  Bill,  as  the  shock 
'ad  made  a'most  sober,  trembled  all  over. 

"The  moment  I  died,"  ses  Silas,  "I  thought  of 
my  promise  towards  you.  'Bill's  expecting  me,*  I 
ses,  and,  instead  of  staying  in  comfort  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea,  I  kicked  off  the  body  of  the  cabin-boy  wot 
was  clinging  round  my  leg,  and  'ere  I  am." 

"It  was  very — t-t-thoughtful — of  you — Silas,"  ses 
Bill;  "  but  you  always — w-w-was — thoughtful.  Good- 
by." 

Afore  Silas  could  answer,  Mrs.  Burtenshaw,  who 
felt  more  comfortable,  'aving  got  a  bit  o'  the  clothes 
back,  thought  it  was  time  to  put  'er  spoke  in. 

"Lor'  bless  me,  Bill,"  she  ses.  "Wotever  are  you 
a-talking  to  yourself  like  this  for  ?  'Ave  you  been 
dreaming?" 

"Dreaming!"  ses  pore  Bill,  catching  hold  of  her 
'and  and  gripping  it  till  she  nearly  screamed.  "I 
wish  I  was.  Can't  you  see  it  ?" 

"  See  it  ? "  ses  his  wife.     "  See  wot  ? " 

"The  ghost,"  ses  Bill,  in  a  'orrible  whisper;  "the 
ghost  of  my  dear,  kind  old  pal,  Silas  Winch.  The 

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Keeping  up  Appearances 

best  and  noblest  pal  a  man  ever  'ad.     The  kindest- 
>arted " 

"Rubbish,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw.  "You've  been 
dreaming.  And  as  for  the  kindest-'arted  pal,  why 
I've  often  heard  you  say " 

"H'sh!"  ses  Bill.  "I  didn't.  I'll  swear  I  didn't. 
I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"You  turn  over  and  go  to  sleep,"  ses  his  wife,  "hid- 
ing your  'ead  under  the  clothes  like  a  child  that's 
afraid  o'  the  dark!  There's  nothing  there,  I  tell  you. 
Wot  next  will  you  see,  I  wonder  ?  Last  time  it  was 
a  pink  rat." 

"This  is  fifty  million  times  worse  than  pink  rats," 
ses  Bill.  "I  on'y  wish  it  was  a  pink  rat." 

"I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  there,"  ses  his  wife. 
"Look!" 

Bill  put  his  'ead  up  and  looked,  and  then  'e  gave 
a  dreadful  scream  and  dived  under  the  bed-clothes 
agin. 

"Oh,  well,  'ave  it  your  own  way,  then,"  ses  his 
wife.  "If  it  pleases  you  to  think  there  is  a  ghost 
there,  and  to  go  on  talking  to  it,  do  so,  and  welcome." 

She  turned  over  and  pretended  to  go  to  sleep 
agin,  and  arter  a  minute  or  two  Silas  spoke  agin  in 
the  same  hollow  voice. 

"Bill!  "he  ses. 

"Yes,"  ses  Bill,  with  a  groan  of  his  own. 
275 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

"She  can't  see  me,"  ses  Silas,  "and  she  can't 
'ear  me;  but  I'm  'ere  all  right.  Look!" 

"I  'ave  looked,"  ses  Bill,  with  his  'ead  still  under 
the  clothes. 

"We  was  always  pals,  Bill,  you  and  me,"  ses  Silas; 
"many  a  v'y'ge  'ave  we  had  together,  mate,  and  now 
I'm  a-laying  at  the  bottom  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and 
you  are  snug  and  'appy  in  your  own  warm  bed.  I 
'ad  to  come  to  see  you,  according  to  promise,  and 
over  and  above  that,  since  I  was  drowned  my  eyes 
'ave  been  opened.  Bill,  you're  drinking  yourself  to 
death!" 

"I — I — didn't  know  it,"  ses  Bill,  shaking  all  over. 
"I'll  knock  it — off  a  bit,  and — thank  you — for — 
w-w-warning  me.  G-G-Good-by." 

"You'll  knock  it  off  altogether,"  ses  Silas  Winch, 
in  a  awful  voice.  "You're  not  to  touch  another 
drop  of  beer,  wine,  or  spirits  as  long  as  you  live. 
D'ye  hear  me  ?" 

"Not — not  as  medicine?"  ses  Bill,  holding  the 
clothes  up  a  bit  so  as  to  be  more  distinct. 

"Not  as  anything,"  ses  Silas;  "not  even  over 
Christmas  pudding.  Raise  your  right  arm  above 
your  'ead  and  swear  by  the  ghost  of  pore  Silas 
Winch,  as  is  laying  at  the  bottom  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  that  you  won't  touch  another  drop." 

Bill  Burtenshaw  out  'is  arm  up  and  swore  it. 
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Keeping  up  Appearances 

Then  'e  took  'is  arm  in  agin  and  lay  there  wondering 
wot  was  going  to  'appen  next. 

"  If  you  ever  break  your  oath  by  on'y  so  much  as 
a  teaspoonful,"  ses  Silas,  "you'll  see  me  agin,  and 
the  second  time  you  see  me  you'll  die  as  if  struck  by 
lightning.  No  man  can  see  me  twice  and  live." 

Bill  broke  out  in  a  cold  perspiration  all  over. 
"You'll  be  careful,  won't  you,  Silas?"  he  ses. 
"You'll  remember  you  'ave  seen  me  once,  I 
mean  ?" 

"And  there's  another  thing  afore  I  go,"  ses  Silas. 
"I've  left  a  widder,  and  if  she  don't  get  'elp  from 
some  one  she'll  starve." 

"  Pore  thing,"  ses  Bill.     "  Pore  thing." 

"  If  you  'ad  died  afore  me,"  ses  Silas,  "  I  should 
'ave  looked  arter  your  good  wife — wot  I've  now  put 
in  a  sound  sleep — as  long  as  I  lived." 

Bill  didn't  say  anything. 

"I  should  'ave  given  'er  fifteen  shillings  a  week," 
ses  Silas. 

"  'Ow  much  ?"  ses  Bill,  nearly  putting  his  'ead  up 
over  the  clothes,  while  'is  wife  almost  woke  up  with 
surprise  and  anger. 

"Fifteen  shillings,"  ses  Silas,  in  'is  most  awful 
voice.  "You'll  save  that  over  the  drink." 

"I— I'll  go  round  and  see  her,"  ses  Bill.     "She 

might  be  one  o'  these  'ere  independent " 

277 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

"I  forbid  you  to  go  near  the  place,"  ses  Silas. 
"Send  it  by  post  every  week;  15  Shap  Street  will 
find  her.  Put  your  arm  up  and  swear  it;  same  as 
you  did  afore." 

Bill  did  as  'e  was  told,  and  then  'e  lay  and  trembled, 
as  Silas  gave  three  more  awful  groans. 

"  Farewell,  Bill,"  he  ses.  "  Farewell.  I  am  going 
back  to  my  bed  at  the  bottom  o*  the  sea.  So  long 
as  you  keep  both  your  oaths  I  shall  stay  there.  If 
you  break  one  of  'em  or  go  to  see  my  pore  wife  I 
shall  appear  agin.  Farewell!  Farewell!  Farewell!" 

Bill  said  "Good-by,"  and  arter  a  long  silence  he 
ventured  to  put  an  eye  over  the  edge  of  the  clothes 
and  discovered  that  the  ghost  'ad  gone.  He  lay 
awake  for  a  couple  o*  hours,  wondering  and  saying 
over  the  address  to  himself  so  that  he  shouldn't  for- 
get it,  and  just  afore  it  was  time  to  get  up  he  fell  into 
a  peaceful  slumber.  His  wife  didn't  get  a  wink, 
and  she  lay  there  trembling  with  passion  to  think 
'ow  she'd  been  done,  and  wondering  *ow  she  was  to 
alter  it. 

Bill  told  'er  all  about  it  in  the  morning;  and  then 
with  tears  in  his  eyes  'e  went  downstairs  and  emptied 
a  little  barrel  o'  beer  down  the  sink.  For  the  fust 
two  or  three  days  'e  went  about  with  a  thirst  that 
he'd  ha'  given  pounds  for  if  'e'd  been  allowed  to 
satisfy  it,  but  arter  a  time  it  went  off,  and  then,  like 

278 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

all  teetotallers,  'e  began  to  run  down  drink  and  call 
it  pison. 

The  fust  thing  'e  did  when  'e  got  his  money  on 


With  tears  in  his  eyes  'e  emptied  a  little  barrel  o'  beer  down  the  sink. 

Friday  was  to  send  off  a  post-office  order  to  Shap 
Street,  and  Mrs.  Burtenshaw  cried  with  rage  and 
'ad  to  put  it  down  to  the  headache.  She  'ad  the 
headache  every  Friday  for  a  month,  and  Bill,  wot 

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Keeping  up  Appearances 

was  feeling  stronger  and  better  than  he  'ad  done  for 
years,  felt  quite  sorry  for  her. 

By  the  time  Bill  'ad  sent  off  six  orders  she  was 
worn  to  skin  and  bone  a'most  a-worrying  over  the 
way  Silas  Winch  was  spending  her  money.  She 
dursn't  undeceive  Bill  for  two  reasons:  fust  of  all, 
because  she  didn't  want  'im  to  take  to  drink  agin; 
and  secondly,  for  fear  of  wot  he  might  do  to  'er  if 
'e  found  out  'ow  she'd  been  deceiving  'im. 

She  was  laying  awake  thinking  it  over  one  night 
while  Bill  was  sleeping  peaceful  by  her  side,  when  all 
of  a  sudden  she  'ad  an  idea.  The  more  she  thought 
of  it  the  better  it  seemed;  but  she  laid  awake  for  ever 
so  long  afore  she  dared  to  do  more  than  think. 
Three  or  four  times  she  turned  and  looked  at  Bill 
and  listened  to  'im  breathing,  and  then,  trembling 
all  over  with  fear  and  excitement,  she  began  'er  little 
game. 

"He  did  send  it,"  she  ses,  with  a  piercing  scream. 
"He  did  send  it." 

"W-w-wot's  the  matter?"  ses  Bill,  beginning  to 
wake  up. 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  didn't  take  any  notice  of  'im. 

" He  did  send  it,"  she  ses,  screaming  agin.  "  Every 
Friday  night  reg'lar.  Oh,  dont  let  'im  see  you 
agin" 

Bill,  wot  was  just  going  to  ask  'er  whether  she  'ad 
280 


Keeping  up  Appearances 

gone  mad,  gave  a  awful  'owl  and  disappeared  right 
down  in  the  middle  o'  the  bed. 

"  There's  some  mistake,"  ses  Mrs.  Burtenshaw, 
in  a  voice  that  could  ha'  been  'card  through  arf-a- 
dozen  beds  easy.  "It  must  ha'  been  lost  in  the  post. 
It  must  ha*  been." 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  then  she  ses,  "  All 
right,"  she  ses,  "I'll  bring  it  myself,  then,  by  hand 
every  week.  No,  Bill  sha'n't  come;  I'll  promise 
that  for  'im.  Do  go  away;  he  might  put  his  'ead 
up  at  any  moment." 

She  began  to  gasp  and  sob,  and  Bill  began  to 
think  wot  a  good  wife  he  'ad  got,  when  he  felt  'er 
put  a  couple  of  pillers  over  where  she  judged  his 
'ead  to  be,  and  hold  'em  down  with  her  arm. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Winch,"  she  ses,  very  loud. 
"Thank  you.  Good-by,  Good-by." 

She  began  to  quieten  down  a  bit,  although  little 
sobs,  like  wimmen  use  when  they  pretend  that  they 
want  to  leave  off  crying  but  can't,  kept  breaking  out 
of  'er.  Then,  by  and  by,  she  quieted  down  altogether 
and  a  husky  voice  from  near  the  foot  of  the  bed  ses: 
"Hasitgorn?" 

"Oh,  Bill,"  she  ses,  with  another  sob,  "I've  seen 
the  ghost!" 

"Has  it  gorn  ?"  ses  Bill,  agin. 

"Yes,  it's  gorn,"  ses  his  wife,  shivering.  "Oh, 
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Keeping  up  Appearances 

Bill,  it  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  looking  at  me,  with 
its  face  and  'ands  all  shiny  white,  and  damp  curls 
on  its  forehead.  Oh!" 


Other  wimmcn  'as  to  be  satisfied  looking  at  new  hats. 

Bill  came  up  very  slow  and  careful,  but  with  'is 
eyes  still  shut. 

"His  wife  didn't  get  the  money  this  week,"  ses 
Mrs.  Burtenshaw;  "but  as  he  thought  there  might 

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Keeping  up  Appearances 

be  a  mistake  somewhere  he  appeared  to  me  instead  of 
to  you.  I've  got  to  take  the  money  by  hand." 

"Yes,  I  heard,"  ses  Bill;  "and  mind,  if  you  should 
lose  it  or  be  robbed  of  it,  let  me  know  at  once.  D'ye 
hear?  At  once  /" 

"Yes,  Bill,"  ses 'is  wife. 

They  lay  quiet  for  some  time,  although  Mrs. 
Burtenshaw  still  kept  trembling  and  shaking;  and 
then  Bill  ses*  "Next  time  a  man  tells  you  he  'as 
seen  a  ghost,  p'r'aps  you'll  believe  in  'im." 

Mrs.  Burtenshaw  took  out  the  end  of  the  sheet 
wot  she  'ad  stuffed  in  'er  mouth  when  'e  began  to 
speak. 

"Yes,  Bill,"  she  ses. 

Bill  Burtenshaw  gave  'er  the  fifteen  shillings  next 
morning  and  every  Friday  night  arterwards;  and 
that's  'ow  it  is  that,  while  other  wimmen  'as  to  be 
satisfied  looking  at  new  hats  and  clothes  in  the  shop- 
winders,  Mrs.  Burtenshaw  is  able  to  wear  'em. 


283 


NOVELS  AND   STORIES 

BY 

W.  W.JACOBS 

Each  Volume  Illustrated  by 

WILL  OWEN  $1.50 

PUBLISHED   BY   CHARLES   SCRffiNER'S  SONS 

SHORT  CRUISES 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12mo.    $1.50 

"There  will  be  something  joyous  lacking  in  your 
experience  if  you  miss  taking  these  cruises  with  Mr. 
Jacobs. " — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"Twelve  of  the  best  stories  he  has  ever  concocted, 
with  a  good  laugh  in  each  one." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"In  the  dozen  tales  contained  in  'Short  Cruises'  he 
shows  that  the  stream  of  humor  is  flowing  as  freshly 
as  ever.  He  is  at  his  best.  .  .  .  The  final  story 
in  the  volume  takes  its  place  beside  '  Brugglesmith' 
as  an  epic  in  intoxication." — New  York  Sun. 

"They  are  twelve  examples  of  unadulterated  fun." 

— New  York  Tribune. 


NOVELS  AND  STORIES  BY  W.  W.  JACOBS 

SALTHAVEN 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12mo.    $1.50 

"Here  is  a  pretty  little  seaport  town  with  its  nautical  jet- 
sam, sea  captains  ashore  and  their  womenkind,  a  skipper's 
office  and  countless  love  affairs.  The  solemn  office  boy  is 
a  new  friend  and  very  funny.  Vigorous  repartee  marks 
the  courtship  of  the  kitchen  maid  and  bosun,  and  much  the 
same  talk  in  different  language  passes  between  the  hero 
and  heroine.  People  who  don't  know  W.  W.  Jacobs  had 
better  make  his  acquaintance  at  once.  '  Salthaven '  is  a 
good  book  to  begin  with." — New  York  Sun. 

"  It  leaves  a  good  taste  in  the  mouth,  the  charm  of  genu- 
ine humor." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

DIALSTONE  LANE 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12  mo.     $1.50 

"  He  keeps  his  characters  at  cross  purposes  with  one  an- 
other until  it  seems  impossible  that  he  should  ever  be  able 
to  straighten  out  their  affairs.  But  he  is  as  ingenious  as  he 
is  funny,  and  the  climax  to  his  farce  is  in  truth  nothing 
less  than  masterly — it  is  so  unexpected,  so  natural,  and  so 
uproariously  funny." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Jacobs  writes  of  skippers,  and  mates,  and  seamen, 
and  his  crew  are  the  jolliest  lot  that  ever  set  sail." 

— London  Times. 


HOVELS  AND  STORIES  BY  W.  W.  JACOBS 

AT  SUNWICH  PORT 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12mo.     $1.50 

"A  novel  which  fairly  overflows  with  the  bubbling 
humor  characteristic  of  this  teller  of  wonderfully  good 
stories." — Boston  Times. 

"  It  is  a  delightful  book,  with  plenty  of  clean,  wholesome 
humor,  calculated  to  better  the  reader's  appetite  and 
make  him  sleep  more  soundly. '  '—San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"  Nothing  written  in  recent  years  has  so  inexhaustible 
a  vein  of  irrepressible  humor  running  through  it." 

— The  Dial. 

"  His  fun  is  of  a  robust  and  well-authenticated  sort 
which  has  many  prototypes.  He  is  the  most  successful 
writer  of  humorous  fiction  who  has  come  to  light  of 
recent  years." — Springfield  (Mass.)  Republican. 

"  No  humor  past  or  present  is  quite  so  spontaneous  and 
so  smoothly  flowing." — London  Daily  Express. 

"  In  this  book  the  author  has  excelled  himself.  It 
overflows  with  fun  on  every  page.  ...  A  constant  series 
of  comical  surprises." — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  We  know  of  no  better  cure  for  despondency  than  to 
read  one  of  Mr.  Jacobs's  stories." — Boston  Transcript. 


NOVELS  AND  STORIES  BY  W.  W.  JACOBS 


CAPTAINS  ALL 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12mo.     $1.50 

"It  is  a  book  for  tired  mortals,  refreshing  as  a  breath 
of  sea  air." — Public  Opinion. 

"They  are  as  lifelike  as  ever,  always  entertaining  and 
often  excruciatingly  funny." — New  York  Sun. 

"We  congratulate  every  reader  who  takes  up  'Cap- 
tains All.' " — New  York  Tribune. 

ODD    CRAFT 

With  illustrations  by  WILL  OWEN 
12mo.    $1.50 

"We  can  say  nothing  better  in  praise  of  this  delight- 
ful volume  than  that  it  is  Mr.  Jacobs  at  his  best." 

— London  Academy. 

"  Proves  anew  that  in  his  particular  field  he  is  unique." 

— New  York  World. 

"Mr.  Jacobs  serenely  continues  to  distribute  whole- 
some food  for  laughter.  These  characters  elicit  fresh 
admiration  for  the  inexhaustible  inventions  of  their 
creator. " — Spectator. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York 


Date  Due 


DEC 


FIIIMTCO  IN  u.«.«  CAT     NO     24    161 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LI8SA»YF»011T. 


A     000  698  686     3 


